Boomtown
by Shadowcatxx
Summary: AU. Michigan 1880. Al Jones was a foul-mouthed, chain-smoking, all-American gunfighter; Matt Williams was a spoiled Québécois harbouring a dark secret. Al loved Matt, but would love be enough to save him from the wildness of the Wild West? Or—worse yet—from himself? (fragments of FACE Family :)
1. Chapter One

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BOOMTOWN**

WARNING:This story is intended for a mature audience and contains scenes that some readers may find offense. If you are underage or easily offended, I discourage you from continuing. However, if you are 16+ I bid you welcome and enjoy! Thank-you for your attention :)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please excuse the incredibly historically-inaccurate use of modern language (insofar as dialogue and description), as well as my taking liberties with some character names &amp; relationships.

ALWAYS practice safe sex.

DON'T do drugs.

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

AMERICA Alfred F. Jones

CANADA Mathew (Bonnefoi) Williams

GERMANY Ludwig Beilschmidt

FRANCE Francis Bonnefoi

ITALY Feliciano Vargas

SPAIN Antonio Fernàndez Carriedo

PRUSSIA Gilbert Beilschmidt

NETHERLANDS Lars Van den Berg

HUNGARY Elizabeta Hédervàry

JAPAN Honda Kiku

ROMANO Lovino Vargas

BELGIUM Laura Van den Berg

LUXEMBOURG Henri Van den Berg

CHINA Wang Yao

HONG KONG Unnamed (Li Xiao Chun)

SWITZERLAND Unnamed (Basch Zwingli)

SCOTLAND Allistor (Scottie) Kirkland

ENGLAND Arthur Kirkland

TAIWAN Xiao Mei

AUSTRIA Roderich Edelstein

LIECHTENSTEIN Unnamed (Eva Vogel)

* * *

**ONE**

**MICHIGAN**

**SEPTEMBER 1880**

Alfred F. Jones touched his gun's grip as the wagon pulled into town. He eyed the dodgy patrons—old bearded lumberjacks, and mustached landowners in drab sports suits, syphilitic prostitutes, and stinking gold-toothed drunkards—as he clenched the leather reigns. The horses' hooves sloshed through the ankle-deep mud and the wagon wheels slid greasily. He could feel dozens of seedy eyes on he and his companion as they stopped outside of Grand Central Hotel. He felt Matt stiffen beside him. Subtly, Al released his gun and squeezed Matt's hand.

As they were unloading, a man hanging from a second-story window wolf-howled, which began a landslide of rude cat-calls and gestures directed at Matt.

"Fuckers," Al spat. But Matt grabbed his forearm as Al reached for his gun, shaking his head. Grudgingly the American paraded the Canadian into the hotel.

"Hey, baby!"—"Ain't seen gals that fucking fine in months."—"How much for a fuck, sweetheart?"—" Fuck? I'd settle for a fucking blowjob, babe."—"Ten bucks _cash_ for the night, darling."

"Just ignore them, Al," Matt whispered, red-cheeked in embarrassment. "Let's ask about renting a room."

The manager was a stern-faced German, who eyed the newcomers skeptically. Then, noticing the bright red cross on Matt's satchel, he relaxed and said: "You're the doctor? Good. It's been six months since we've had a doctor in this town. The last one was shot in the forehead. I hope you're not squeamish, boy. Just how old are you anyway?" He studied Matt's fair face.

"Twenty-two. I'm Mathew Williams," he said, shaking the manager's hand—"Ludwig Beilschmidt," he said. "And this is my friend, Alfred Jones."

"Twenty-three. I'm a gun-fighter," said Al, shooting a warning glare at the hotel's disreputable patrons.

Ludwig glanced at the double gun holsters on Al's hips. "And can I assume that, since you're still alive, you're a good gun-fighter, Mr. Jones?"

Al smirked: "The fucking best."

Ludwig lifted an eyebrow, unblinking. He slid the hotel's ledger over the countertop, and asked: "Where are you coming from? I expected you a week ago." Al got the feeling that he disliked tardiness.

"We ran into trouble on the road," he answered vaguely, glancing at Matt, who was filling out the ledger. "It took us longer than expected to get away from Montréal." _No thanks to Mattie's overbearing father_.

* * *

**MONTRÉAL**

**AUGUST**

Mathieu, mon chéri!" gushed Francis Bonnefoi, hugging his son. "It's not too late to change your mind. Alfred will understand if you want to stay here with Papa, bébé." He shot a disapproving glare at Al: "Instead of trekking out into the middle of god-forsaken nowhere," he muttered. "It'll be dangerous, chéri. I'll worry about you."

"Papa, _please_ stop making a fuss," Matt sighed, standing limply in Francis' arms. "I didn't spend six years as an acolyte in a freezing cold Cathedral, and then six years studying medicine so that I could sit here doing nothing."

Francis smiled sadly. "You can't save the world, chéri." His lithe fingers combed through Matt's pale-blonde hair, sweeping back an errant curl.

Al watched the father-son interaction from a safe distance, twirling a ring of keys around his index finger and trying to avoid Francis' penetrating gaze. The French aristocrat had never openly admitted to disliking him, but Al knew that he blamed the American for Matt's desire to leave, as if Al were stealing him from Francis. _It's not my fault you've smothered him for twenty-two years_, Al thought. Though, as he watched Francis wrap his arms around Matt, pulling the young man into an affectionate hug, he wondered what it must be like to have a father who actually cared. What it would be like to have a father who didn't work himself sick, who actually acknowledged his son's existence, and who wasn't the reason his only son had run away at fourteen.

"Al?"

Al blinked. Matt was standing in front of him, his eyes—big, long-lashed violet eyes—looked concerned. It amazed him, sometimes, how much Matt could say without opening his mouth: _Are you okay_? The American smiled. "Yeah. You ready to go? The wagon's waiting."

He threw his arm companionably over Matt's shoulders, and, just to watch Francis bristle, he grinned.

* * *

**GRAND CENTRAL HOTEL**

**SEPTEMBER**

Here's your key," said Ludwig dryly. "Breakfast is served at six o'clock."

Al grabbed it with a curt: "Thanks" and tromped off upstairs, boots clomping heavily on the floorboards.

Matt thanked Ludwig and hurried after Al, clutching his satchel. "Al? Eh, what's wrong?" he asked, closing the bedroom door behind him. "Did I do something—"

"No, Mattie, you didn't. And that's the problem," Al said, rounding on him. His bright, cornflower-blue eyes were alive with fight and pent-up frustration. "When we left Montréal I swore to your Pa that I'd protect you, but I can't do that if you won't let me. For fuck's sake, Matt, the way you let them talk about you; the way you let them talk _to _you! It's fucking insulting."

"I've been called worse by better," said Matt pragmatically. "I didn't come here looking for trouble—"

"Well, you're going to get fucking gang-banged if you're not careful," Al said seriously. "It's frightening."

"No," Matt countered. "What's frightening is that neither you or Papa think I can defend myself."

Al felt guilty. They had had this conversation before, but he soldiered on: "It's not that, Mattie. I'm sure you can defend yourself in a fair fight, but that's not what you're going to find in this place. This isn't the Hôtel Ritz, okay? Do you know how many of those cocksuckers want to fucking bone you?" Matt turned, mumbling: "Yeah right," but Al grabbed his shoulder. "I'm serious, Matt. Do you know what people think when you walk down the street?"

"_There goes the doctor with the obnoxious_,_ loud-mouthed gunner_?" Matt guessed sarcastically.

Al didn't laugh. He said: "No, more like: _There goes the obnoxious_,_ loud-mouthed gunner with the fine-piece-of-ass doctor. Gee, I'd love to get my cock up that pretty little body_."

Matt rolled his eyes. "Oh, _come on_, Al. That's not true—"

"It is!" Al insisted. "And the fact that you don't realize how goddamned sexy you are makes you even sexier. I'm just saying," he relented, shrugging, "you're not making my job any easier acting like the attention doesn't bother you. You might as well walk around wearing a sandwich-board that says: FUCK ME. I WON'T FIGHT BACK."

Matt snorted. "I think you're overreacting. I think you're doing that thing you do, feeling... what's it called? _Jealous_," he smiled. Moving forward, he rested his arms around Al's neck. "I think it's why you rant and shout about things that don't make any sense, and why you wave those guns around, challenging anyone who blinks to a duel, and then you give that speech about _how dangerous a man you are_! And why _people shouldn't fuck with you_!And I laugh, because secretly—"

Al stole a kiss mid-sentence. Snaking his arm around Matt's waist, he closed the gap between their bodies, pressing their chests together. Matt's tongue was hot and slick, and Al kissed him deeply, swallowing the moan that the younger produced. Then, rather abruptly, he pulled back and breathlessly Matt said:

"—I love it."

"Oh, is that supposed to be a secret?" Al grinned arrogantly. Leaning in close, he whispered: "Then you're a terrible secret-keeper, babe."

The door flew open then, and both men flinched. Quickly Matt stepped away from Al, out of reach. "Can we help you?" he asked the apologetic intruder.

"Oh, so sorry!" he said in a high-pitched Italian accent. "I didn't know this room was occupied. I'll just come back later, sí? I know, I'll bring you something to eat!"

"No, no. That's really not necessary—"

"I am Feliciano Vargas," he introduced himself, clasping Matt's hand between his. Then, without warning, he sprang forward and kissed both of Matt's cheeks. Al was ready to protest when he suddenly found himself the recipient of identical kisses. "I work for Germany!" said Feliciano happily. Al and Matt assumed that he meant the hotel's manager, Ludwig. "I will go and get you something to eat now, sí? And it will be ready when you are done!"

"Err... _done_?" Al shifted. He exchanged a worried glance with Matt, who blushed.

"Sí, when you are done unpacking, of course," Feliciano clarified. "Ciao!"

The door closed behind the Italian, leaving Al and Matt staring after him in bewilderment. Then Matt looked at Al and burst out laughing. "Dangerous, eh?" Al shrugged in helpless defeat. In retaliation, he grabbed Matt around the waist and threw him down onto one of the two single-beds. Matt gasped in pleasant surprise and sunk into the soft feather mattress, opening his arms for Al. The American's weight pressed down on him. In disbelief, Matt stroked the nape of Al's neck, and said: "Right _now_? We don't know when he'll be back."

"Didn't you hear him?" asked Al, grinning mischievously. "He'll be back when we're _done_."

* * *

Feliciano returned with a large trey laden with food, as well as a letter addressed to Matt. As Al ate—"Oh God, Mattie. You've got to try this, it's _amazing_!"—Matt read. Absently, he fingered an errant curl and chewed softly on his bottom lip. Al watched him fidget, the sight making him feel both aroused and concerned. He swallowed, and said: "Mattie?"

"Duty calls," Matt replied, refolding the letter. "It's from a local man, Lars Van den Berg. I've been requested to make a house-call as soon as possible."

"These people don't waste time, do they?" said Al, sinking his teeth into a slice of tomato-soaked bread. "Word-of-mouth travels fast. They hear there's a doctor in town and they're already drafting up letters? Hey! Just wait a minute, Mattie. I'll go with you."

"It's alright, I won't be long," Matt dismissed. "I'll meet you downstairs later, okay?" He left before Al could argue, slinging his satchel over his shoulder, and shut the door on Al's protest: "You haven't even eaten yet Matt!" He descended the stairs, excited and nervous about his first on-call appointment. Doctoring the townspeople was the reason he was here, after all. It's why he had spent six years studying, and why he had left home. He was a young and inexperienced doctor, clever and compassionate, but it wasn't his skills that needed testing: it was his confidence. Contrary to what his résumé stated, he hadn't _technically_ practiced medicine outside of the University yet.

He pulled his hood up, ignoring the curious looks cast his way as he ventured uptown. It was a mild, grey afternoon threatening rain. A thick, wet curtain of fog hung underfoot. Matt looked left-to-right, searching the grim streets for NUMBER 69, but the townhouses were squished together like bricks. Lost, he asked a street-vendor for directions and the leering man pointed to a tall, narrow building with a single red-light lantern hanging at the front door. Matt knocked twice and was promptly invited into—a brothel.

* * *

Fifty cents per hand-job, two dollars for a blow, and a fuck is five," recited the wizened matron. Sucking on a long tobacco pipe, she studied his discomfort—shocked into silence—until a conclusive smiled curled her red lips. "Ah," she guessed, smiling kindly: "Virgin?"

"_What_? No! I mean, I'm not here to... I'm sorry, I think I have the wrong address," Matt clutched his satchel.

"Oh, you're the doctor!" she said, exhaling smoke. It smelled sickly sweet. "Of course, c'mon in. Mr. Van den Berg's expecting you, hon. Follow me."

Matt followed her through the poorly-lit house, past a smoky salon full of lazy, half-dressed women and two giddy gamblers. One was singing happily—drunkenly—in slurred Spanish, a woman beneath each arm as he swayed; the other banged his fist against a tabletop, swearing loudly in German as a third woman worked between his knees. Matt felt himself blush as he climbed a narrow staircase. He had never entered a brothel before. "Really, _never_?! But you're from fucking Montréal!" Al had said once, thinking it cute. Now Matt just felt naive.

The matron stopped in front of a tall door, knocked shortly, and then pushed Matt inside.

Lars Van den Berg was an exceptionally tall, broad-shouldered man with gravity-defying ash-blonde hair and green eyes that stared at Matt through a curtain of smoke. He looked young, though his steely countenance suggested that he was older than he looked, and he regarded the doctor with cold indifference, eyes skirting over Matt from head to toe. "Doc Williams?" he asked. His voice was low and calm, like deep-water. "I'm Lars Van den Berg, the overworked owner of this fine establishment." Matt shook his hand; Lars' hand enveloped his. "I hope you're better at your job than the last piss-poor doctor was. I need you to keep my girls healthy, nobody wants to fuck a diseased whore, understand?"

"Err... yes," said Matt uncomfortably. "I'll just... get started then? Do you have a private room I can use to examine them in?"

The Dutchman smiled coolly. "This is a brothel, Doc. All we've got are private rooms, take your pick."

Matt settled in an adjoining room and proceeded to doctor each of the women he had seen downstairs. Some of their maladies shocked him: occupational hazard, he assumed. Nothing he hadn't studied, of course, but he had never seen it in practice. He tried to keep his expression vacant, but the flirty girls giggled and goaded him, touching him: stroking his cheek, finger-combing back his hair, squeezing his thigh, and blowing into his ear, all trying to elicit a reaction from him (trying to entice him or embarrass him, Matt didn't know which). Lars entered halfway through the examination of a young brunette, both of whom denied Matt's plea that Lars leave. "Oh, I'm not bashful, hon," she said, tapping Matt's nose condescendingly. Matt flushed, not because of her touch, but because Lars was quietly leaning in the doorframe watching him. It was hard to maintain a professional reputation when his patients were giggling and saying things like:

"The doctor? He's _precious_!"—"So sweet and _so_ pretty!"—"He's got the softest skin, and those eyes! They're gorgeous."—"I _love_ him! He's so gentle and polite. Did you see him blush? I bet he's a virgin."

"Okay, I'm finished," Matt told Lars, collecting his tools. "I left a list of instructions for the matron, she _can_ read, can't she? Good. I'll leave it with her then. Some of the girls shouldn't work until their ailments are... cleared up. You shouldn't have a problem getting anything on that list from the apothecary in Detroit. If there's anything else you need, Mr. Van den Berg, just call-on me at Grand Central Hotel."

Lars nodded. "I've never met a man more popular with my girls. You've got a gift, Doc Williams."

Matt inclined his head, pleased with his work, though the Dutchman's flattery made him feel self-conscious. He was smiling to himself—_first job completed successfully_!—when Lars' big hand landed on his shoulder, preventing him from leaving. Suddenly Matt's triumph melted into unease. _Was Al right about these townspeople_?_ Or_ _did I do something wrong_? Uncertainly, he asked: "Is there something else you needed, Mr. Van den Berg?"

The Dutchman's impassive face relaxed. "I really am grateful," he said. "I'll have the money sent to you first thing tomorrow, but until then..." He reached into his deep coat pocket and produced a tinderbox of crushed tobacco leaves. "Can I offer you my thanks?"

"Oh." Matt sighed in relief. "Thank-you, but I don't smoke tobacco."

Lars lifted an eyebrow incredulously. "Do you not?" he asked. Matt feared he had insulted the Dutchman. Silently, he waltzed back into the adjoining office, gesturing for Matt to follow him. He dug in a wardrobe drawer for several minutes before he found what he was looking for: a small jar of sticky, black resin. Matt sucked in his breath in reflex; his lungs already ached for the sweet vapour. Noting his response, Lars grinned. "Don't tell my sisters, ja?" he said, extracting a dollop of resin. "It's stronger than laudanum," he warned, indicating the near-empty bottle in Matt's satchel, conveying a silent promise—from one indulger to another—to keep Matt's fancy a secret. Lars stood in front of him and held out the pipe. "What'd you say, Doc?"

Matt swallowed and clenched his hands. Deceptively, it seemed like it had been _so long_. "I shouldn't... my friend is waiting for me, and..."

Lars moved toward Matt, standing so close that he could smell the woody scent of dried tobacco, as well as the Dutchman's musky sweat. He could see the day-long hairs on Lars' otherwise clean-shaven chin, and the indent of a sharp white scar on his forehead. He could see the urging in his sage-green eyes. Lars was so much bigger than Matt, so much _steadier_. Matt opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He swallowed and tried again: "I should—"

"Stay," said Lars, handing him the pipe. "You should stay."

* * *

Where the fuck have you been?!" Al raged. "I've just spent four hours running all over town looking for you, looking in fucking ditches! I thought you'd been fucking abducted or something! Do you have any idea what time it is?!"

Matt massaged his temple, squeezing his eyes shut. His head was pounding, and Al's loud, accusatory voice was like a jack-hammer to his brain. He felt weak and woozy and didn't have the energy to argue back. Instead, he collapsed onto his bed with a quiet groan. It was long after midnight, but the small bedroom felt painfully light. The drapes had been left open and the full-moon shone in brightly, silhouetting Al's figure.

"Hey, Mattie?" Al's added weight sunk the mattress. His hand felt good against Matt's skin. It was something solid. "Are you okay? You look— _fuck_!" Matt flinched. Angrily, Al snapped down at him: "You promised you'd stopped smoking that fucking shit!"

"Al, it's not—"

"Don't lie to me!" Impulsively he grabbed the front of Matt's shirt, jostling him. "You think I don't know what opium smells like? My Pa's been smoking the fucking stuff for years, since before I was born. It's one of the reasons I left, remember? You said you'd stopped doing it, Matt. Goddamn it!"

Matt opened his eyes, groaned weakly, and forced himself unsteadily onto his elbows. He knew that he had hurt Al. He wanted to apologize: _I'm sorry_, _Al_. But his head swam and his vision blurred and he fell sideways on the bed, and then his stomach lurched and his throat burned and, before he could stop himself, he was vomiting painfully into a wastepaper-basket beside the bed.

Al sighed. He was angry—no mistake—but he pushed back Matt's sweat-soaked hair and held him while he gagged, vomiting bile because he hadn't eaten anything. Reproachfully, he asked: "Why do you do this, Matt?"

"Al," Matt whispered, leaning against him. "I'm sorry." Then he blacked-out.


	2. Chapter Two

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BOOMTOWN**

* * *

**TWO**

**GRAND CENTRAL HOTEL**

**SEPTEMBER 1880**

Excuse me, Doc Williams? This was left for you downstairs," said a proud Hungarian voice. Elizabeta was an attractive brunette with red ribbons in her long, nut-brown hair, whose smile was sweet as long as nobody tried to cop-a-feel. In equal parts maid, bartender, and blackjack-dealer, she was the warden of order and discipline when Ludwig was gone. She was sharp-tongued and quick-witted, and didn't tolerate the nonsense of hangovers. Incidentally, her bedside manner was gruff. "Doc," she shook him. "It's eleven o'clock, past time to get up."

"Elizabeta, _please_ stop," Matt groaned, rolling over. "I've got a killer-headache."

"Serves you right," she said, non-pulsed. "Alfred said you were out late last night, seemed right put-out about it too. I won't even ask what kind of doctor leaves his medicine bag in a brothel," she added, dumping his satchel onto Al's vacant bed. Matt, at least, had the decently to look ashamed. Fortunately she didn't pry. "Lunch is ready," she said. "And you've got half-a-dozen requests awaiting your attention downstairs." Then she left.

* * *

Matt found Al sitting on a barstool, absently thumbing a deck of well-handled cards. Sheepishly he slid onto the stool beside him, and uttered a small: "Good morning."

Al shuffled the deck. "How's your head?"

"Fine," Matt lied. Al snorted, a less judgmental way of saying _serves-you-right_. "I'm sorry about last night. I don't know why I did it... but I guess it doesn't matter."

Al watched from the corner of his eye as Matt fingered an errant curl self-consciously. His head was tipped thoughtfully, repentantly, and his pale cheeks were flushed, making his eyes look exceptionally violet. His top shirt buttons were undone and Al could see the column of Matt's slender neck and the rise of his collarbone. He could see the unhealed mark left by his own harassing lips. And he cursed: _Fuck_. "It's okay, I'm not mad." Matt paid him a shy, thankful smile and Al's heart skipped a beat.

"Come with me today?" Matt asked. "I've got"—he looked at a long list—"nine patients to see. Unless you had other plans?" he added, indicating the deck of cards.

Al smiled and slipped the deck into his pocket. "Nope."

* * *

Al liked watching Matt work, especially when he worked with children. The little rug-rats loved the soft-spoken man, showering him with smiles, and giggling when they ought to have been crying. Al parried questions while he waited:

"Are you a gun-fighter?"—"Are you any good?"—"Have you ever killed a man?"—"What's in the flask? Are you a drunk?"—"No, he's Doctor Mattie's servant."—"You shouldn't smoke in here."—"Can I hold your guns?"

By the time Matt was finished, Al had a skinny red-haired boy by the ankles and was shaking him upside-down as the child shouted gleefully, misunderstanding Al's purpose. "Oh good, you're done," he said, dropping the boy with a soft _thump_. He slipped a cigarette between his lips and struck a match on his belt-buckle, then followed Matt outside. "Where to now?"

"The post office. I promised Papa I'd telegraph him once we got settled."

Al grunted in reply. Of course, _perfect_ son that Matt was, he would want to keep contact with dearest Papa.

The telegraph operator was a slight Japanese man, whose deft fingers flew over the metal wires, keeping the connections alive. He glanced up momentarily when Al and Matt walked in, but otherwise ignored them. Al waited while Matt wrote a short letter in French to Francis. Eyeing the back wall, he whistled appreciatively. It was covered in cupboards of post-boxes, criss-crossing wires, and a large, impenetrable safe. The operator—his nametag read Honda Kiku—narrowed his eyes, but didn't address Al. He took Matt's letter, and said: "Five cents, please."

As they were leaving, two men walked in. One was dark-skinned with curling black hair and a jaunty smile, and the other was pale and red-eyed, with white hair. He was glowering at a joke the former had made, presumably at his expense. Al decided to ignore them, until the Spaniard said: "Oy! I know you, I saw you at The Red-Light last night! You spent an _awful_ long time upstairs with Van den Berg," he teased. Then he extended his hand congenially: "I'm Antonio Fernandez Carriedo."

Matt shifted. "Nice to meet you. I'm Matthew Williams, and this is Alfred Jones."

Antonio ignored Al. Smiling at Matt, he cocked his head and chuckled. "I must have been mucho drunk last night, amigo. I really thought you were a chica."

"Well, he's not," Al said flatly. The Spaniard laughed, as if Al was joking, but the German beside him looked perfectly—almost scarily—sober, red eyes leering at Matt. "C'mon, Mattie. Let's go."

"You're staying at Grand Central Hotel?" the German called. "My little bruder runs the place, but I'm a co-owner. My name's Gilbert. If you ever need anything"—directed at Matt; Gilbert licked his lips—"just let me know, alright _Mattie_?"

"Thanks, we're fine!" Al said testily, grabbing Matt's forearm. Beneath Matt's gaze, Al glared back at the two older letches and let them see him touch his gun holster in warning. He wanted to intimidate them, to dissuade them from any further interest in he and Matt, but Gilbert only smirked, accepting the challenge. He winked.

Fuck. Al was _really_ starting to hate this town.

* * *

_Ah_, _Mattie_!" Al moaned through clenched teeth. He squeezed Matt's hips, slick with sweat, and guided the Canadian's pulsating rhythm; _harder— faster— fuck_, _fuck_, _fuck_! Matt's fingers dug into Al's shoulders, his breathy voice moaning in Al's ear. Al held him tightly; Matt arched his back. The tension between them mounted and Matt threw back his head, gasping out Al's name louder than was safe. The red sunset caught his face, lighting it, and making his pale curls shine strawberry-blonde. There were tears in his eyes, and his pale skin was flushed and glistening with beads of delicious sweat. His expression was lost somewhere between agony and ecstasy. A strangled whine escaped Al's lips and his body trembled in release, then relaxed in satisfaction.

Matt collapsed against Al's chest and both of them fell backwards on the bed, breathing hard. Al wrapped his arms weakly around his lover's shaking body, his strength spent.

"Feel _hah_ better?" Matt asked breathlessly.

Al grinned: "_hah _Yeah _hah_."

Al hooked his finger under the bed-sheet and drew it over them both. Matt settled against his side, his silky head resting on Al's shoulder under his chin. He could feel the Canadian's chest rising and falling at an above-average rate, his heart palpitating. "You alright, Mattie?" he asked, holding him in a one-armed hug.

"Yeah—"

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

"_Fuck_!" Al cursed. "Hold on!" he shouted, grabbing for his trousers as Matt leapt clumsily off him. He belted his trousers and combed a hand through his bedraggled blonde hair, trying to look casual. Matt struggled into the first shirt he found on the floor—Al's shirt—as the doorknob turned. "_What_?" Al growled, flustered.

Feliciano poked his head in, looking worried. "Doctor?! Sorry to bother you, but it's urgent! It's my older brother, and—Oh! Sorry to bother you," he repeated, noting their state of disarray: Al, shirtless, leaning back against the headboard and trying to look nonchalant; and Matt, sitting guiltily on the foot of his bed, knees pressed together, and wearing only Al's long shirt. "I would, err... come back, but my brother needs help. He's been shot!"

To his credit, Matt didn't waste time with excuses. He nodded quickly, and said: "I'll be right down."

They dressed and Al followed Matt downstairs and into a dark card-parlour, where a small group of people—Ludwig, Elizabeta, Gilbert, and Antonio—were surrounding a young, dark-haired Italian lying on a table. His teeth were clenched and Ludwig and Antonio seemed to be holding him down as blood seeped through their fingers.

Antonio was saying: "Lovino? It's okay... it's going to be okay, querido," though his face was fearfully pale.

"Matt!" said Elizabeta, pulling him forward.

As Matt worked, assisted by Antonio, Ludwig, and an ever-present but not helpful Feliciano, who shouted: "Lovino's dying! Oh no, fratello!" Al asked Elizabeta what had happened.

"It was fast. One minute they're playing cards, five of them—Lovino, Antonio, Gilbert, and two strangers—and the next thing the strangers are shouting, screaming that Antonio's a cheater, that he's stealing from them. Well, Lovino spits back that they're wrong, getting himself worked up—he has _such_ a temper—and one of the bastards pulls a gun and just shoots him! Then they clear-off real fast while we're tending to Lovino. Gilbert tried to chase after them, but they kept shooting. I'm surprised you two didn't hear it?"

Al _had_ heard the shooting, vaguely, but had assumed it was outside on the street. Honestly, a canon could have blown through the wall and Al wouldn't have flinched, not with Matt writhing in his lap.

"Lovi? I'm here, okay? I'm right here, querido," said Antonio, squeezing Lovino's hand as Matt cleaned and dressed the gunshot wound in his shoulder.

"This is just alcohol-based," said Matt, wetting a cloth, "but it's going to hurt like a bitch, so hold him down."

Lovino wasn't a big man, but when Matt pressed the soaked cloth against his raw flesh he lurched forward in pain, screaming around the gag in his mouth. His big hazel eyes watered and he squeezed them tightly shut. Al felt badly for him. He knew _exactly_ how Lovino felt, having had several wounds treated by Matt's gentle but firm hands. The Italian whined, seething in self-loathing. Al knew _that_ feeling too, embarrassed that such pathetic noises were being pulled from him.

Antonio's brow creased. He looked almost as pained as Lovino. "Oh, querido," he groaned, pressing Lovino's knuckles to his lips. Matt finished stitching and dressing the wound and tied the bandages, hands red with blood. He took the gag from Lovino's mouth and braced himself for a verbal-thrashing, which didn't come. Exhausted, Lovino leaned back against Antonio. "There, Lovi. You're going to be fine, just fine," cooed Antonio, petting his sweat-soaked bangs. He pressed his cheek to the crown of Lovino's head and closed his eyes.

Al was watching them in puzzlement, and didn't realize who was helping Matt get cleaned up until Gilbert chuckled. He was holding Matt's hand between both of his, wiping off the blood, and he was smiling. _Like a fucking pervert_, Al thought, _but Mattie doesn't seem to mind_. Matt just looked relieved, talking softly to Gilbert, who was eyeing the younger's lips. When Gilbert reached up and wiped a freckle of blood from Matt's cheek with his finger, Al had enough. He stomped over and grabbed Matt's forearm rather roughly, surprising him.

"Al, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, I'm just tired."

"So go to bed by yourself," said Gilbert offhandedly. "Unless you need Mattie to tuck you in?"

Al clenched his fist. Matt flinched: "_Ouch_— Al!" But he ignored him. Al had had it with Matt's obliviousness and Gilbert's mocking grin. "Fuck-off, Gilbert! Just mind your own fucking business!" he snarled.

"Al!" Matt gasped.

"No, it's alright," Gilbert said, grinning in anticipation. He stalked up to Al, stopping inches from his chest, and said: "If you've got something to say to me, _Alfred_, then say it instead of hiding behind your pretty lover—"

Al released Matt and threw his fist at Gilbert. The blow caught the surprised German on the chin, sending him stumbling backwards. "Fuck yeah!" Gilbert shouted, silencing the room. "I guess you're not all talk after all, are you Yankee?" He lunged at Al, fists clenched, and tackled him in raucous glee. They tumbled around, punching and kicking, and trying to strangle each other; Al seething and Gilbert hollering with laughter, while Ludwig and Elizabeta shouted at them to stop, and Feliciano jumped onto a table in escape.

Matt yelled: "Al, stop it! You're acting like—"

"Shut up, Matt!" snapped Al, yanking on Gilbert's shirt-collar.

* * *

Matt stared at Al, stunned. _What are you doing_? _Why are you acting like this_?

He watched them rolling on the floor like two dogs fighting over—Oh. _It's my fault. It's because Gilbert was giving me so much attention_,_ flirting_, he realized shamefully. _God_, _I'm dense_!

"Al! Al stop, it's alright!" Matt reached for him. But Al was fired, hot-blooded and angry. Furiously, he threw his fist back and decked Matt in the face, hurling him backwards. Matt yelped in surprise: "_Ah_!"

And the fight abruptly stopped. Al looked mortified: "Mattie—"

"Doctor Williams?" interrupted a soft voice. A young blonde girl, who looked strikingly like Lars, stood in the doorway clenching her apron. She glanced around the room, eyeing the mess—broken glass, overturned chairs; the blood, the fight, the frightened Italian standing on a tabletop—and said: "Is Matthew Williams here?"

"I'm here," said Matt, rubbing his throbbing jaw.

"My name is Laura Van den Berg, Lars is my older brother," she explained hurriedly. "You need to come with me to The Red-Light_ right_ _now_. My younger brother is sick, he can't breathe!"

"Okay, let me get my bag," Matt said, rushing upstairs. Without a backward glance at the small company, he followed Laura out into the darkness, glad for the distraction. It was windy, and Laura's lantern jangled as she led him through the winding streets, back to the uptown brothel. "Your younger brother?" he asked, struggling to keep-pace with Laura's fast stride. "How old is he? Does he have a history of illness?"

"No, not at all. We were just having supper and he started choking. Lars pounded on his back, but it didn't help. He started coughing and gasping and couldn't breathe."

"It sounds like asthma," said Matt. "He needs medicine to relax his bronchial muscles."

Laura unlocked The Red-Light and pulled Matt inside. It was shockingly quiet. She led him upstairs, through Lars' office and into a back bedroom, where the Dutchman was holding a little boy upright as he gasped, struggling to breathe. His face was pale and sweaty, cheeks streaked with tears. Matt made eye-contact with Lars, who looked lost. Matt had seen that look before: it was the helpless look of a big, strong man who realized that there was nothing he could do to save his loved-one. "What's his name?" Matt asked, preparing a draught of laudanum. "Henri," was the short reply. Matt took Henri's skinny hand, and said: "Swallow this." His round, blue eyes widened as Matt pressed the glass to his lips and tipped back his head, forcing him to swallow; Lars held him firmly. Almost instantly the drug began to counter the asthma attack and Henri started to cough violently, gasping deeply as his lungs reopened. He took deep, shaking breaths. Tears leaked from his eyes as Lars lifted him, tucking him back into bed. Matt took out a stethoscope and measured his breathing, then took his pulse. "He should be okay," he said finally. Laura relaxed and took his place, wiping Henri's brow and cooing in comfort as Lars left, motioning for Matt to follow.

"Thank-you," he said, exhaling in relief. "I thought he would suffocate. I thought..." He met Matt's gaze and offered a small half-smile of gratitude. Then, business-like, he said: "What's your poison, Mathew? I've got it all, and whatever you want it's yours." He removed the jar of resin from the wardrobe and shoved it into Matt's hand. "Here, take the whole damn jar—"

"No thank-you, it's fine," Matt tried to refuse. "I told you to call-on me if you needed help, and I'm glad you did. It's my job to help people..." Matt stopped. Lars was staring at him intently. "What?" he asked.

"You're a really decent person," Lars stated.

"I'm really just like everyone else." Self-consciously he fingered a curl, staring shyly at the floor. He could feel Lars' eyes baring into him, and soon he felt his hands. The Dutchman touched his bruising cheek, then swept him into an embrace that felt fraternal—until Lars' warm lips touched his ear.

"_Mathew_," he whispered huskily. It was enough to make Matt shiver. "Stay here."

"No, I can't," Matt said, heart pounding. Forcefully, he pushed against Lars' chest, breaking contact. "I can't. I have... somewhere to be." He thought of Al, of the American's heartbroken face when he had realized whom he had punched. He thought of Al, self-destructive on his behalf; his fierce, smiling face ready to defend Matt against slander. Of Al lying in bed at Grand Central Hotel, alone. "I'm sorry," he said to Lars honestly. "Goodnight."

* * *

Al was lying in bed on his side, clutching a pillow in a one-armed hug when Matt walked in. He was asleep, his broad chest rising and falling peacefully, despite the ugly bruise on his handsome, sun-kissed face. He looked younger when he slept. _Maybe we all do_, Matt thought.

Undressing quietly, Matt left Al's starched shirt on and crawled cautiously into the bed. Al wouldn't wake, he slept like the dead. Bowing his head, Matt touched his forehead to the back of Al's hot neck. Matt was always cold and Al's skin was so invitingly warm. He whispered: "I'm sorry, Al. Please forgive me." Then he planted a feather-soft kiss between Al's shoulder-blades and went to sleep beside him.


	3. Chapter Three

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BOOMTOWN**

* * *

**THREE**

**GRAND CENTRAL HOTEL**

**OCTOBER 1880**

You motherfucking son-of-a-goddamn-whore," Lovino said, pounding the card-table in reflex. Indignantly he threw down the losing cards in his hand and eyed Al the way a tomcat watches a field-mouse. Al smirked as he swept the table's contents toward himself in a grand display of victorious arrogance, unbothered by the spurned Italian. "Eliza, another pint!" Lovino yelled, deciding to spend his allowance on liquor, which was a safer bet than poker. Antonio looked disapprovingly at him: "I think you've had enough, Lovi," but Lovino ignored him.

"Yeah, Eliza. This round's on me," Al said, fanning-out his winnings.

Matt rolled his eyes and accepted the shot Al bought him, touching his glass to Feliciano's in celebration. "I don't suppose you've had enough yet, have you?" he asked Al.

The American lit a cigarette and exhaled smoke, leaning back. "Where're you going Mattie? You're my good-luck charm." He winked.

Matt ignored him and the shouting-match that started when Gilbert whistled in agreement. He left Al and Gil to their antics, having learned that it was useless to talk sensibly to either of them when they had been drinking. He left the hotel in favour of the porch, letting the wind pull back his hair. It felt good, having spent the afternoon in a smoky card-parlour. He stretched his arms above his head, cracking his spine in the process—something that made Al cringe, though he denied it bothered him—and then sinking contentedly against the railing. Across the road a stranger hollered rudely at him, but Matt ignored him. After a month of living at Grand Central Hotel, the whistles and foul-language had become part of the street's din, just more aimless noise amidst the shrieks, shouts, and gunshots of everyday life. Most of it was harmless anyway, you just had to be patient and it would stop.

"Mathew," said a soft, polite voice. Calm and composed, Kiku was standing on the street. "I am glad that I ran into you. I have a letter for you from Montréal," he said, fishing in his pocket. "It is from your father."

"Thank-you," Matt accepted the letter. Kiku bowed his head and continued along. He wasn't a terribly social man, but Matt liked him. Sitting on the railing he unfolded Francis' letter, which was five pages long, front and back. He was still reading when Gil's voice startled him:

"Don't worry, I'm not spying," the German grinned. "I can't read fucking French."

Matt folded the letter and shoved it into his pocket. "Did Al start another game?" he asked needlessly.

Gil nodded. "Yeah. He's a greedy fucking glutton," he said, leaning against the railing. "I've been meaning to ask you, though, what's with you two anyway? I mean, he follows you to your visits; you wait around while he drinks and plays cards. Afraid to make other friends, Mattie?"

"No, it's just that we've been together—_traveling_ together—since I left Montréal. Al's the reason I left home in the first place. I've never really been without him," he said, staring at the ground.

"You're without him right now," Gil pointed out. He straightened and pretended to offer Matt his arm, like a gentleman in escort. "Come for a walk with me? I won't grope you," he promised.

They walked downtown—hands to themselves—unhurried and talking about nothing particularly important. Gil asked Matt about Montréal and Matt told him, laughing when Gil screwed-up his face and said: "Sounds god-awful. Fucking French, isn't it?" He told Matt about the _Old Country_ and how much he missed it. He and Ludwig had been uprooted to come to America at a young age, but Gil remembered the sights and sounds and smells of his birthplace. "You said before that Al was the reason you left home," Gil said, rewinding the conversation. "What did he do, kidnap you?"

Matt chuckled. "Maybe. I met Al almost two years ago. He was passing through Québec, going East. He was the only person dumb enough to trying gun-fighting in Montréal and ended up banned from every salon in the city. Papa and I were walking back from an outing when we came across someone fool enough to accept Al's challenge. He shot the man straight through the stomach. I guess he was feeling merciful." Matt rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I had been studying medicine at the University and I ran over to help. When I was done I turned on Al and reamed him out. I think the whole street stopped to listen. I've never spoken so loudly or angrily in my entire life. It shocked Papa," he chuckled, "and Al. The next day I found him standing on our front step, and..." he shrugged, "we've been together ever since. It wasn't a great first-impression, but I'm glad I met him. He's the one who confirmed my belief that there was a world outside my window, something Papa had been denying for years."

"And when he asked, you left with him?" Gil guessed.

"Yes. He promised to take me West. I _could _have done it alone, I suppose, but I don't think I _would_ have."

Sighing, Gil lit a cigarette and sucked in. He exhaled slowly. "There's no competing with him, is there?"

"No," Matt agreed, misunderstanding Gil's words. "Once he sets his mind to something, he follows through. It's what I lo— _like_ about him, but it also makes him impossible to argue with. He _always_ has to be right," he vented. "Even when he knows he's wrong, he won't admit it. And stubborn! Al's definitely someone who—" Matt stopped. Gil had stopped a few feet behind him, head cocked and grinning. "Oh," he realized, fingering a curl. "I've been talking about Al for a long time, haven't I?"

"About four blocks," Gil calculated. But he didn't look upset, only bemused. "You're lucky to have such a good friend, Matt. Even if it is Alfred Jones. Don't forget that."

* * *

Gil left Matt outside a Cigar Shoppe while he went inside to resupply. Matt waited patiently. Gil took his sweet time, but the Canadian didn't mind. He browsed Main Street's window displays, which were dark. The workdays were growing shorter as the season changed, October blowing quickly into November. It was only seven o'clock, but night was already falling; the sun and moon hung together in the pale sky.

_I love autumn_, Matt thought. It wasn't hot or cold. The harvest season was busy, the streets and fields full of people, talking and trading. It was beautiful, full of hot colours as the leaves changed, blown on a cool wind. Montréal would look like it was on fire, vibrant in reds, oranges, yellows, and greens. Francis loved to paint the landscape in autumn. He had tried to teach Matt the French schools of art, but Matt had preferred brighter, bolder strokes and wilder subjects, and Francis had sighed indulgently. _Red_, Matt thought, eyeing a lonely red maple tree. He _loved_ red.

Then a hand landed on his shoulder, but it wasn't Gil. It was a tall, brown-haired stranger with strong lumberjack's hands, and fingernails caked with dirt. Matt said: "Can I help you?"

The man grinned, shoving two one-dollar bills into Matt's hand. "More n' enough for a blow, babe?"

Matt shoved the money back. "Leave me alone," he said sternly, moving away. But the stranger grabbed him.

"C'mon, I gave you double what it's fucking worth." He dragged Matt toward him, like a fishing-line. Matt tried to dig his heels into the mud, but the ground was slippery. He lost his balance and the stranger leapt at the opening, snaking an arm around Matt's waist. He leaned down, pressing his face close, and said: "I'm not looking to hurt you, _Doc_. Yeah, I know who you are. D'you know there's a bet 'round town, kind of like a race to see who can fuck you first?" He chortled in delight. "Raping is against the rules, o' course, but it's not raping if you enjoy it, right?"

"Let go!" Matt snapped, his heart pounding. He didn't want to hurt anyone. "I'm warning you— Let. Me. Go."

The stranger ignored him. He fought Matt's protests, dragging him between two closely-built shops and out of sight. He wasn't a particularly big man, but he possessed the wiry strength of someone who worked a labour-intensive job. "I've been having a real sorry day," he said, forcing Matt against the bricked wall. "But finding you alone has improved my mood. Where's that fucking cocksucker who's always tailing you, huh?"

Matt braced his hands against the wall, shoved against it roughly. He clenched his teeth, gasping when the stranger's callused hand reached under his shirt, then into his trousers. Matt squirmed. "Please, _leave me alone_!" he begged. The stranger cupped his cock, squeezing. Matt clenched his fists. _Don't make me fight you_. He had taken an oath to save people; he didn't want to hurt anyone if he didn't have to. _Not again_.

"He's your bodyguard, ain't he? That loud, fucking prick. I've got to say you're kind of a shame," he said, unbuckling his trousers. "Not your looks, babe, you've got a sweet fucking body, but I was expecting more of a fight from you. I guess you really are just the little slut everyone says. You want it, don't you? You want my— AH!"

He was wrenched back, screaming violently. Gil was standing behind him, an unapologetic knife stuck into the man's back. Sinisterly Gil gripped the handle and wrenched it up, a serious expression on his frightening face. The knife broke through skin and muscle-tissue before yanking it out. The man collapsed, howling in pain.

"Gil!" Matt stared in shock. "Why did you do that?!" He knelt beside the stranger, who was bleeding-out.

"WHY?" Gil snapped incredulously. "Because he was going to fucking rape you, Matt! What'd you want me to do, stand there and watch?"

"You didn't have to _stab_ him! I would've been fine! I can defend myself—"

"_Can you_? Because you looked like a fucking victim from where I was standing, like someone's _slut_!"

Gil's verbal blow hurt more than the stranger's vulgarity. Non-confrontationally, Matt bowed his head over the whining stranger, and mumbled quietly: "No, I'm not."

* * *

When Al heard about what had happened—_of course Gil told everyone_! Matt thought bitterly—he stormed into their bedroom, ashen-faced. "Mattie, you okay?! Gil said someone hurt you—"

"Gil's lying," Matt said stiffly. "I'm not hurt."

The Canadian was sitting on his bed, knees pulled to his chest, trying to read. Al sat down on the edge of the bed and lowered the book, studying Matt's face for signs of abuse. "I should've been with you," he decided, shaking his head. "If Gil hadn't been there, you'd be—"

"I'm fine!" Matt snapped. "And I'd be just as fine without Gil, except a man wouldn't have been _stabbed_! I'm sick of not being taken seriously. I'm not a _fucking doll_!"

Al stared at Matt in shock. The only times he ever swore was when he was highly inebriated, or royally pissed-off (like on the day they had met), and then he might as well be a stick of dynamite ready to explode. Al tread cautiously, sensing that something was wrong. "Mattie? Do you want to talk about it?"

"Non." Matt hugged his knees, looking sideways. "There's nothing to talk about. I'm just... tired."

Slowly Al conceded. "Okay, if that's what you want. But you would tell me if something was wrong, right? Cause if someone's said something to you, then I'll find him and—"

"I'm fine, Al," Matt repeated, forcing calm. It was incredible how he could suppress his feelings, Al thought. But Matt's body was tense, his face pale. Al reached out, wanting to touch him, to comfort him, but the ice in Matt's eyes warned against it. Instead, the American returned his book to him.

"I'll be downstairs if you need me," he said, and then left, cursing himself for not being there. For letting Matt get hurt in a way that hugs and kisses couldn't heal.

* * *

Matt dreamt of being fucked.

Hard and hot until his body ached. He felt Al's strong body pressed against his, chest to back; felt Al's hands on his hips, squeezing tight; felt Al's length working hard inside him. Matt moaned and leaned back against him. Al bowed his head, pressing his hot lips to Matt's ear, and he gasped: "_Slut_!"

But it wasn't Al. It was the stranger from the street, sneering carnally down at him. Suddenly Matt panicked, trying to escape, but the man slammed against him hard, making him cry out in pain. His piercing eyes grew wide and sightless as he thrust desperately into Matt's body, grunting loudly, and cursing as his cock released—

* * *

Matt bolted upright, awake. He was breathing hard and covered in cold sweat, his heart was pounding. The nightmare swam before his eyes: the stranger's leering face, head thrown back in ecstasy. He blinked furiously to rid himself of the mental picture. Frightened, he glanced at Al's bed where the languid American was enjoying a deep, undisturbed sleep. Matt wanted to crawl into bed beside him and hug him close, wanting to use Al as a shield against his fears, but he didn't move. He laid back down, keeping _very_ quiet, and tried not to shake.


	4. Chapter Four

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BOOMTOWN**

* * *

**FOUR**

**GRAND CENTRAL HOTEL**

**OCTOBER 1880**

Are you going into Detroit today?" Ludwig asked Al at breakfast. He was munching on black-bacon, runny eggs, flaking toast, and fluffy flapjacks smothered in syrup. Feliciano had shook his head, sighing at the gooey mess on Al's plate, and calling it _culinary chaos._ "It's getting windy and it's supposed to rain," Ludwig said seriously. "Be careful on the road, ja?"

Al met Matt at the base of the stairs. He was dressed for traveling in a long overcoat belted at the waist, and wearing his pale-blonde hair pulled back in a short, curling ponytail. Slung over his shoulder was his satchel in need of resupply, the reason for their venture to the city. Chivalrously Al started to take it from him, but Matt stepped back and clenched the strap. "Al, I'm going to go into the city alone. I've already arranged it with Kiku to ride with the mail-carriers. I'm sorry," he added.

Al licked his lips. _Don't yell_. "Err, why do you want to go alone? The road's not safe."

"I know, but I'll be with a group of people with guns—"

"If you're going to be with a group then why can't I come?" he interrupted. "Mattie, after last night—" He stopped. Suddenly the apology had left Matt's face. _Uh oh._

"Al," Matt said coldly. "That's exactly why I want to go _alone_. I just need to do this by myself, okay? I need to prove that I _can_ protect myself, but I can't do that with you and Gil and everyone else jumping to my rescue all the time. I'm sorry," he repeated, softening the blow, "but it's only thirty miles away, I'll be back before nightfall."

Al sighed. He didn't like the idea—_hated_ the idea—but Matt looked so earnest. He wanted to be supportive, but the thought of Matt on the road alone worried him. Matt didn't know what he was doing! He understood a lot of things that made Al's head spin—medicine, geography, _French_!—but he didn't understand the streets; he didn't want to believe that people were fucking bastards. Francis had known this about him. Before they had left Montréal, the Frenchman had dragged Al aside and made him swear to look after Matt: "If anything happens to him, anything at all, I will hunt you down and castrate you, _understand_?" Al had shook the Frenchman's hand and promised that he did.

"Al?" Matt said softly. "Don't you trust me?"

Al swallowed. "Of course I do. Yeah, I just... okay," he agreed, drawing Matt into a cautious hug. He wanted to say: _No_, _don't go_! but Matt smiled in relief and wrapped his arms around Al's neck.

"Thank-you," he said, discretely pressing a kiss to Al's cheek. "I'll see you tonight."

Al watched Matt leave. He looked nervous but excited, like he had on his first job. It was a good, frontier kind of nervous, Al supposed. Matt smiled and chatted to the three mail-carriers as they loaded the wagon. He nodded and climbed up, bracing his satchel on his lap. It was then that Gil and Antonio joined Al in the doorway, watching the street nonchalantly as a whip cracked and the wagon pulled away. Antonio threw his arm over Al's shoulder, smiling companionably. Gil leaned against the wall, and sagely said: "You know, if you follow him you'll never have sex again."

Dejectedly, Al sighed. "I know."

* * *

**DETROIT**

Matt paid the apothecary's assistant and shoved the big brown-paper bag into his satchel, restocking his supplies. The boy was young, black-haired, and bored-looking as he counted out the money. His employer, a long-haired Chinaman, glanced outside and cringed. He said: "The sky is getting very dark. Get home safely, okay?" as if Matt was a child. The Canadian pursed his lips and nodded. _Is it my look_? he wondered. _Do I look helpless_?

Matt was about to leave when, suddenly, the sky opened up and a torrential downpour soaked the street. It was so heavy and loud that he couldn't see anything beyond the overhang, but the street seemed deserted, people running for cover. "That was fast," said the Chinaman from behind the desk. "You can wait here for it to stop if you want. I am Wang Yao. Do you want tea, Doctor Williams?"

Absently, Matt nodded. "Do you think it'll last long?" He had to meet Kiku's employees before five o'clock if he wanted a ride back to town. Al would worry if Matt was late.

"It is hard to know," said Yao, handing Matt a ceramic teacup. He cocked his head, noting Matt's concern, and said: "You are troubled? Do not worry, it will not rain forever." Matt sipped the steaming tea quietly, and, after a moment, the Chinaman changed the subject. "You use a lot of laudanum, Doctor Williams. Maybe it is not just for your patients?"

Matt burnt his tongue: "_Ouch_!" Incredulously he looked at Yao, whose face was passive despite the brazenness of his comment. "I might... take a dose for myself... occasionally," he admitted, staring into the teacup. "For medicinal reasons, of course. To relieve work-related stress."

"Maybe you are feeling stressed today?" Yao asked, inching toward a conspicuous red door. "Maybe you would like something stronger?"

* * *

Matt followed the Chinaman down a flight of creaking, wooden stairs and into a dark hallway, at the end of which was a bigger, heavier door. A blonde man was sitting on a stool, guarding the door, and hugging a mean-looking rifle to his chest. He was dozing lazily, but snapped to attention the second he heard footsteps. He nodded curtly to Yao, eyeing Matt warily, and then he reached up with a gloved hand and opened the door.

Matt gaped. The long, dark room was hazy with bitter-sweet smoke. It was packed with sluggish patrons who were lying on silk opium-beds and staring absently up at the low ceiling. A few sat slumped over tables, throwing back shots of amber liquid. A rakish redhead in the corner was smoking a cigar as he punched a shorter blonde man in the shoulder. The blonde shouted back at the redhead: "Bloody fucking wanker!" and the redhead guffawed.

"An opium den?" Matt recognized.

Gently Yao nudged Matt inside, guiding him like a proper host giving a tour. "Private rooms cost extra, but otherwise you can stay for as long as you like. You have smoked opium before, yes? Mei will take care of you," he said, snapping his fingers for a tiny Taiwanese girl. She smiled politely and bowed in welcome. It was then that the younger boy returned. He whispered in Yao's ear, relaying a message, and together they left. "Enjoy yourself, Doctor."

Mei led Matt to an opium-bed. "You've done this before?" she inquired, preparing a pipe.

Matt hesitated. _I shouldn't be here_,_ I promised Al. The wagon will leave without me_._ He'll be worried about me, and I've already caused enough trouble_. _I should go._ Mei handed him the pipe, which he took. And said: "Yes."

* * *

**GRAND CENTRAL HOTEL**

Al drummed his fingers on the windowsill; his left hand clenched a glass of whiskey and a cigarette. He threw back his head, emptying the glass, and then took a long, tense drag. Rain lashed against the window, making it difficult to spy Main Street, but he watched anyway. He bit his thumbnail, eyes skirting the stormy landscape. "He's not back yet."

Eliza refilled his drink. "They'd be mad to try and travel through _this_," she nodded. "They're smart to stay in the city. Besides, it's dark now— the perfect night for bandits."

Al licked his lips. "Thanks, Eliza, _that_ makes me feel loads better."

Feliciano shouldered Eliza aside. He smiled cheerfully, and said: "Don't worry, Alfred. There are lots of really nice hotels in the city. The last time we were there, Germany and I shared a really big—"

Ludwig slapped a hand over Feliciano's mouth. "Help me at the bar, Feliciano," he said, shooting a warning glare at Eliza, who grinned slyly. To distract her, Ludwig said: "Elizabeta, there's a guest at the door."

He was a tall, thin man, smartly-dressed, with dark brown hair and sophisticated blue eyes behind wire-framed spectacles. He hung his soaking coat on a peg at the door and adjusted his pearl-white cravat. He walked to the empty reception desk and waited impatiently, eyeing the bell on the countertop.

"Eliza?" Al said. She stood perfectly still, staring at the handsome newcomer with something akin to awe on her face. "Eliza!" Al poked her.

She flinched. "Right, yes. Excuse me!" She hurried to the desk and smiled sweetly, welcoming the man to Grand Central Hotel. He spoke with an aristocratic Austrian accent, but Al couldn't hear the conversation. The hotel's lounge was loud, full of townspeople who would rather drink than face the storm. Eliza handed the newcomer a key, blushing when he politely bowed his head. Al shot her a smirk in encouragement, which embarrassed her.

He took a drink, glancing out the window. Then, when Eliza had gone, he approached the newcomer. "Hey. I'm Alfred Jones. Can I buy you a drink?"

"Roderick Edelstein," said the Austrian. "And thank-you, but no. I've just spent four hours in the rain and all I want to do is get cleaned-up."

"Where're you coming from?" Al asked conversationally, blocking the stairs. "How far East is the storm?"

Roderick seemed perturbed. "I don't know. I was coming from the city when my carriage broke down. My men stayed behind to repair it while I bartered a ride with a mail-carrier. I'm soaked, I'm freezing, and I've spent the last four hours listening to three men sing in Japanese. If you would _excuse me_, Mr. Jones." And he stomped off.

But Al had heard what he needed to. Forgetting his drink, he grabbed his coat and threw open the front door. "Alfred? Where are you going?!" called Feliciano.

Al ran to the post office, braced against the howling wind and lashing rain. "Hey, Kiku!" he banged on the door. "Kiku! I need to talk to you, open the fucking door—" The door opened and Al flew forward, landing hard on the floor with a _thump_. "Fuck!" he cursed, rubbing his elbow. Kiku blinked at him, unconcerned. He was wearing a blue kimono with long sleeves that he folded his hands into, waiting patiently for Al to explain his presence. "Hey, when did your boys get back? Where's Mattie, was he with them?"

"They returned a half-hour ago, but Mathew was not with them. They waited, they left late because of the rain, but he did not show up to meet them. I am sorry, Alfred," he said, reading Al's disheartened expression. "I am sure he is staying in the city tonight. Maybe he did not want to risk the storm, very smart—"

"_Goddamn_!" Al cursed, slamming his fist against the floor. Without an apology or a thank-you to Kiku he ran out, retreating to Grand Central Hotel. He decided quickly. He leapt upstairs, grabbed his guns and his hunting-knife, and raced back down, jumping the last four stairs. "I need a horse!" he yelled at Ludwig. "A fast one!"

"Al? What're you doing? You can't go out there," Eliza chastised. She reached for him: "Matt's fine—"

"No, he's not. Mattie wouldn't just disappear without telling anyone; not without wiring me; not when there were people waiting for him. He'd feel too fucking awful if he stood them up." He clenched his fists, avoiding Eliza's sympathetic touch. "_Fuck_.I never should have let him go alone. Ludwig!" he spotted the German, advancing with Gil, Antonio, and Lovino. "I'm going to find Mattie so don't try to stop me," he warned, touching his gun's grip.

Ludwig rolled his eyes, handing Al a stable-ticket. "Don't be melodramatic, Alfred. They're going with you."

* * *

**DETROIT**

Matt screamed voicelessly. He was surrounded. He couldn't see their faces—big windy shapes—but he could see their greedy lips, smiling big toothy smiles, getting closer—_so close_. Strong sweaty hands grabbed him, pawing at him. Someone pulled his hair, yanking back his head. Another one punched him hard in the stomach, forcing him down. They were all laughing at him. He could _feel_ how much they hated him, how much they _wanted_ to hurt him. How many of them were there? Sneering. Crooning. Purring. _On your knees_,_ Mattie_. A hand pushed his head down, staring at eye-level with someone's waist, his trousers unbuttoned. Matt struggled futilely, held from behind. _We're not going to hurt you_, they lied._ It's not rape if you enjoy it_,_ Mattie_— _pretty little slut_!

A tear fell from Matt's eye: "Al... _help_."

* * *

Lad?" Someone shook his shoulder gently. "Ay, lad, you alright?"

Matt's brain felt foggy. He was lying limply on a short opium-bed, his head lolling over the armrest. Moaning softly, mumbling in a hazy half-stupor. He tried to open his eyes, lids fluttering, but the candlelight was too bright; it hurt. His whole body hurt. It ached, which scared him. But the cool hand on his forehead felt good. It was strong and oddly paternal, reminding him of Francis' protective touch. A man's voice said: "You're safe. It's time to wake up."

Slowly Matt peeled open his eyes. He had been crying.

"Alright, lad?" An English gentleman was staring down at him, smiling uncertainly. "It's okay, you were just having a nightmare."

Matt tried to sit. The Englishman helped him, bracing his back. "I'm dizzy," he said. He fell over. "Sorry..."

"It's alright," said the Englishman. "I think you need some fresh air." He lifted Matt's limp body, pulling the younger's arm over his shoulder and holding his waist to guide him. Together, slow and clumsy, they walked toward the stairs. Matt's head fell against the man's shoulder: he smelled like pine-needles and expensive cigars. His voice, when he spoke, was calm and measured: "You shouldn't be in this place, lad. It's dangerous—"

"Ay, Arthur! Oh, there you are. The fuck are you doing, kidnapping?" said a deep brogue. It was the redhead.

"Fuck off, Allistor. Limely git," Arthur muttered. To Matt, he said: "Up the stairs now, c'mon."

Matt lifted his foot, placed it on the bottom step, and collapsed. But Arthur was stronger than he looked. He lifted Matt, holding him like a newlywed bride. Matt mumbled again: "I'm sorry..." And blacked-out.

* * *

Matt awoke in a luxurious hotel room, four-times the size of his and Al's room at Grand Central Hotel. He was lying in a generous goose-feather bed, crowded with pillows, and his overcoat and boots were folded neatly on a chair beside the window. Matt yawned and stretched stiffly. His head throbbed, but otherwise he felt fine.

A door opened and the Englishman entered. He was of average-height and slight-figured, blonde, and rather attractive for a man his age with striking forest-green eyes. He had a proud countenance and a precise accent. "I'm Arthur Kirkland," he introduced himself. "I hope you don't find this strange, but you passed-out at the club, and— I must confess, I'm not usually such a charitable person, but you look remarkably like someone I used to know. May I ask your name?"

"Err... It's Mathew Williams, sir."

"Mathew? You have the hint of a Québécois accent. You're not, by chance, related to a Bonnefoi, are you?"

Matt blinked. "I— yes. Bonnefoi is my father's surname, Williams is the name I use when I travel. I'm from Montréal." He paused, feeling suddenly nervous. He didn't know this older gentleman, and, however courteous he might seem, he was a stranger who had taken advantage of Matt's opium-induced stupor. "I don't understand why you've brought me here. I... I'm supposed to be going back to..." He glanced at the window, only then realizing that it was still dark and raining hard; the wind howled. "How long have I been here?"

"Only a few hours. I apologize if I frightened you, but, at the risk of sounding like your father, what were you doing in an opium den?" He stared at Matt as if he knew him, and said: "You must be... twenty-one?"

"Twenty-two." Matt pushed himself into a sitting position, yawning suddenly. His mind was sleep-heavy, it took a minute for him to fully comprehend what had been said. "Did you say you know my Papa?"

"_Knew_ him, yes. Francis Bonnefoi," Arthur guessed correctly, sitting down in an armchair beside the bed. He leaned on his elbow, staring nostalgically at Matt as if seeing someone else: a younger child and a Frenchman, ghosts from his past. "I knew you were Francis' son right away, the moment you opened your eyes. I've never met anyone else with violet eyes. You look _so _much like he did at that age," he said quietly. "You probably don't remember me, you were only about two-years-old when we met. I don't think you could quite talk yet," he smiled, somewhat awkwardly. "I lived at your house for a year, your father invited me. God, he _loved_ to spoil you."

Slowly Matt shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't remember you, but that _does_ sound like Papa."

"Yes, he really did adore you. If nothing else, he was a good father..." Arthur paused then, pursing his lips in a familiar manner. Then he continued: "I remember him dressing you up like a doll in a lacy nightgown and ribbons— My deepest apologies," he chuckled, noting the embarrassed blush on Matt's face. "It's not what a twenty-two-year-old man wants to hear, is it? But I'm afraid that's how I remember you, Mathew. You were such an amicable child. Your whole face would light up when Francis was in the room, and you laughed often.

"He doesn't know you smoke opium, does he?" Arthur asked. His bluntness took Matt by surprise. "It's been a long time since I've seen Francis, but I _know_ he'd be heartbroken if he knew that his precious son subjected himself to such danger." He raised an eyebrow pointedly. "I hope you know what you're doing, though I can't help but wonder what you're doing _here_. I found your bag. You're a doctor now, is that true?"

"Yes," Matt answered, feeling both overwhelmed and ashamed. The disapproval in Arthur's green eyes was not unlike Francis'. In fact, it was sharper. "I'm traveling with a friend, Alfred Jones. He and I—"

Arthur's elbow slipped off the armrest. The disciplinarian was gone; now he looked stiff. "I'm sorry, did you say _Alfred Jones_? Big blonde bloke with blue eyes? Chain-smoker, exceptionally loud, thinks he's the tits with a gun? _That_ Alfred Jones? He's here?"

Matt hesitated. "Yes, we're staying at Grand Central Hotel in the next town West. Do you... know him?"

"No, not really," Arthur said, leaning back. Suddenly he looked _very _tired. "He's my son."

* * *

_Uncle Scottie_?" Al stared, open-mouthed. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

The redhead was standing under the overhang of a swarthy tavern, smoking a cigar. "Alfred?" he squinted through the rain. "Fuck me. Haven't seen you in _years_, lad." He grinned broadly and opened his arms. "It's a fucking reunion!" he said, delighted. He pulled Al into a bone-crushing hug, then ruffled his hair. "Guess you're not dead, ay?"

"No, I'm not dead," said Al, struggling free. "What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be back East?"

Allistor shrugged. "Just came for the fucking ride," he said, sucking the cigar. Then, sobering somewhat, he said: "I'm here with your Da. You know, if he knew you were here he'd really want to see you—"

"No," said Al sternly, "he wouldn't."

"C'mon, lad. You can't stay mad forever. Arthur's staying at The Royal Hotel 'round the corner, just come—"

"What? They don't rent rooms _in_ the fucking opium den? Get kicked-out early, did he?"

Allistor exhaled smoke. "No, actually. He found a boy passed-out in the den. Said he looked like a friend's son so he took him back to the room to sleep it off. Poor lad was having a fit, bad high or something. He had a pretty face, though: violet eyes. I think Arthur was worried about him in there— Something wrong, Alfred?"

"Hey Al! Did you find Matt?" Gil called. Soaked to the bone, he, Antonio, and Lovino rode over. "Or are we stopping for a drink?" he asked eagerly, reigning his horse. "It's fucking freezing out here."

"No," said Al, unenthused. He felt tired, too many emotions battling for dominance: relief, anger, regret, and fear. At least he knew now that Matt was safe; Arthur would take care of him. Al just wasn't ready to see Arthur again. "I think I know where Matt is." He looked unhappily at Allistor. "I think he met my father."

* * *

You're Al's _father_?" Matt stared in reply. "_How old are you_?" He certainly didn't look old enough to have a twenty-three-year-old son, much less an all-American, chain-smoking gun-fighter.

Arthur chuckled in reply; amused or ashamed, Matt couldn't tell. "I was very young when he was born, as was your father when you were born, Mathew."

"I'm sorry, that was rude," Matt apologized. "It's just that... I wasn't expecting you to be..." He leaned back against the headboard, sighing thoughtfully. It was silent for a long time, except for the howling wind. "So, you know my Papa and I know your son," he said finally.

"Ironic, isn't it?" said Arthur, unenthused, "that we should meet here? I can't tell you how strange it is to be sitting here talking to you, Mathew. I never thought I'd ever see Bonnefoi or his son again. And now, knowing that you and Alfred are traveling together..." He shrugged helplessly. "It just feels _very strange_."

"I suppose it's unlikely," Matt allowed. "But you..." He paused, studying Arthur's face for signs of falsity. Cautiously, knowing his Papa's tastes, he asked: "You said that you spent a year with us, Mr. Kirkland. Just how close were you and my Papa? Al said—" He stopped.

Arthur smiled humourlessly, as if he knew what had been coming. "Yes. No doubt that Alfred's told you all about what a terrible father I was, how tyrannical I am? That I was the reason he ran away? Well, he's not wrong." Earnestly he looked at Matt, and said: "Honestly, the only time I _ever_ thought about fatherhood was during my time with you. You were such a sweet child, Mathew, hard not to love. I remember once," he started, nostalgia returning, "it was late and everyone was asleep, including Francis. I heard you crying. I waited for Francis or someone else to hear you, but nobody did, so I took it upon myself to quiet you. It was raining that night, not unlike tonight, and I think the thunder had frightened you. But the instant you saw me you stopped crying and reached up for me. Holding you then, I felt like _maybe _having a child wouldn't be such a dreadful thing.

"But Alfred," he shook his head. "Alfred was difficult. He was seven-years-old before I even knew he existed. His mother and I... well, it's not something I've ever been proud of. Alfred was born here, in Michigan, and then seven years later his mother died. Someone found me, dumped him on my doorstep in New York, and, caught completely unprepared, I was suddenly responsible for this angry, grief-stricken child who resented me. I'm afraid our relationship has been rocky ever since, but I'm sure you know that. I'm sure that Alfred's told you. He does like to talk about himself."

Matt stared at him, this old friend of Francis' who was Al's father. This person who had once rocked him to sleep. Curiously, he said: "Mr. Kirkland, why are you telling me this?"

Arthur shook his head. "I don't know. For some reason I feel like it's my responsibility to tell you. You seem like a nice young man, Mathew, exactly the kind of person my son would try to seduce. Oh, I don't mean to offend you," he added quickly. "It's just... Alfred has always been attracted to those he thinks are weaker than him. He has a fetish for playing the hero, a passion he inherited from me, I'm afraid."

Matt swallowed. "Did you think my Papa was weaker than you, Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur eyed him, daring him to revoke his question, saying without words what both of them now knew: that he and Francis had been lovers. "No," he answered finally. "I _wanted_ him to be weaker, but he wasn't. He played with me as much as I played him. We competed for everything, which is why I find your _friendship_ with Alfred so strange."

"Yes, I understand that. But Papa... he was a lot more like Al, wasn't he? He wasn't like me."

"He and Alfred share a certain... enthusiasm, yes. I hope you don't take offense to this," Arthur added, "but you remind me more of myself, Mathew, and not only because we're both recreationally addicted to medicinal drugs. I think you find in Alfred the same spark I found in Francis. We're drawn to passionate people like them, for better or worse. Maybe it's because _they_ need _us_ in their lives." He paused thoughtfully. Then: "If I can give you some friendly advice? Be careful that spark you find so alluring doesn't burn you. Francis was the sort of man who wanted everything, you see. He disliked being left out and he disliked being held back.

"I'm sorry if that's not what you wanted to hear," said Arthur.

Matt shrugged. "I know that Papa is a different person with me. I know that's not who he is all the time."

"You're lucky to know Francis as a father, Mathew. I could tell you things... but you don't want to know."

"About my Papa's sex-life?" Matt cocked his head rhetorically. "No thank-you. But I would like to know who he was when I wasn't around. I've always wondered, you know? I know he was different with me, always kind; always smiling; ever-indulgent. It's a wonder I'm not spoiled rotten. But I know that's not who he really was. You knew him intimately, Mr. Kirkland"—Arthur cringed at the word-choice. "Tell me, what kind of man is he really?"

"Francis," Arthur started, shifting uncomfortably. He licked his lips like Al did when he was nervous. "Your father is very easy to love," he said guardedly. "He is also very easy to hate, but that's beside the point. He's witty, and charming, and he likes to have fun. I think he's in love with love. It's not hard to get swept away by him, especially if you're someone like me who wasted his youth on work, booze, and opium-induced blackouts. Francis was my escape."

"So why did you leave?" Matt wondered. He hadn't realized he had spoken aloud until Arthur sighed.

"I told you: We competed for everything, for dominance. Somehow we stopped being whatever we _were_ and became rivals, and it was either leave each other or destroy each other."

Matt cocked his head, feeling sympathetic. "Do you regret leaving?"

"No."

"Do you"—Matt said it before he could stop himself; having met Arthur, he needed to know—"still love him?"

Arthur looked at Matt. It was the first time they had properly made eye-contact since Matt had been lying in the opium den, piercing forest-green eyes baring into violet. The Englishman looked at Matt, the boy he had once rocked to sleep, and—perhaps _because_ Matt was the only connection he had to Francis and Alfred, two people he had once loved (maybe still did)—he answered him. "The time I spent with Francis will forever be the lightest and darkest time of my life. I don't know if that's a proper answer, but it's the best I've got."

Matt said: "Okay."

* * *

You still haven't answered my question, Mathew," said Arthur. "Why are you _here_? Why did I find you in a dirty, underground opium den frequented by scoundrels such as myself? And if you're traveling with Alfred, where is he?"

Matt looked down at his hands, wringing the bed-sheet. "I told him not to come. I wanted to be alone."

"So you could spend the night lying on your back, drooling and crying? Is my son really so hard to live with?"

"No, it's just..." Matt paused.

Arthur seemed to read his doubts. Kindly, he said: "Sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger than a friend, you don't risk anyone's feelings being hurt. It's a good way to unburden yourself."

Matt inhaled. Bravely, he said: "I came alone because I don't want Al to know how weak I really am." There, he had said it, had finally admitted it to himself. The words came easier after that. "We're supposed to be partners, he and I, but how can we be if I'm lying to him? I want to stop, but I'm afraid of what will happen if I do. What will Al see me as if I tell him the truth? Papa sees me as his baby; Al sees me as a damsel-in-distress." He shook his head. "I don't want to be that person in constant need of rescue, especially not from himself!"

Arthur offered a half-smile. "It's amazing that you can look so much like Francis, but remind me so much of myself," he said softly. "I understand your reservations, Mathew. It's not easy to show weakness to the people you love, especially if those people happen to be as headstrong as your father and Alfred. I couldn't do it," he admitted, "and I lost them both. I know that's not what you want."

"Of course it's not! They're my two favourite people in the whole world."

"Then I think that's your answer."

Matt nodded. Suddenly he felt _very_ tired. Sighing, he leaned back and said: "Thank-you, Mr. Kirkland."

Arthur shrugged. Mimicking Matt, he leaned back and steepled his fingers. "I didn't tell you anything that you didn't already know."

"But still, I'm glad I met you— again."

"I'm glad I met you too. And Mathew?" Arthur paused. "If it's at all possible, please don't hurt my son."

"Believe me, sir. That's the last thing I want to do."


	5. Chapter Five

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BOOMTOWN**

* * *

**FIVE**

**DETROIT**

**OCTOBER 1880**

BANG. BANG. BANG. Al hammered his fist against the hotel room door, provoking shouts of disapproval from the other guests. When the door of ROOM 16 finally opened, he frowned down at his sleep-deprived father. Arthur's clothes smelled like cigar smoke—Allistor's fault—and opium; Al knew the smell well. Curtly, he said: "Pa."

"Alfred," Arthur returned. Without invitation, Al stalked past him into the room. "Please, _do_ come in," he said sarcastically, closing the door.

Matt was sitting in Arthur's bed, a teacup halfway to his lips. He looked shocked, like a spooked fawn. "Al?"

Al sucked in his breath, relief and anger fighting for dominance. Matt looked so... comfortable. Slowly, Al said: "What the hell are you doing?" Matt opened his mouth to answer, but before he could Al rounded on Arthur: "And you, what the fuck are _you_ doing here? Are you responsible for _this_?!" he pointed at Matt's disheveled state. "Did you take him to one of those fucking places?!"

"No, Alfred—"

"Mattie, what the fuck?!" Al raged, feeling hurt. "Is this why you didn't want me to come with you today? So you could make yourself sick on that fucking shit? I thought something awful had happened to you! When Kiku's boys returned without you I didn't know what to think. Do you have any idea how worried everyone is?! Feliciano's freaked right out, Eliza wanted to wire the sheriff, Ludwig didn't want me coming here alone so he told the others to—"

"The others?" asked Arthur, eyeing the door as if expecting someone to break it down. "Where are they?"

"Drinking with Uncle Scottie," Al said unhappily. "Which brings me back to: _What the fuck are you doing here_? They run out of booze back East?"

Arthur clenched his fists. "Don't talk to me like that, you ungrateful—"

"I'm sorry, remind me what I should be grateful for? The fact that _you're_ a neglectful fucking opium-addict, or the fact that you've dragged Matt down too? You must be thrilled now that you've got someone to smoke with."

"Ay, that's unfair!" Arthur snapped. "Mathew is Francis Bonnefoi's son—"

"I know who he fucking is, but you—" Al stopped. "Wait. How do _you_ know who he is?"

Arthur shifted awkwardly. "I used to know his father."

"Francis? How do you know—?" Al's eyes widened. "He's the reason you went back to Montréal, isn't he? When I was fourteen you spent, like, a week in Montréal, even though you hate that city. It's _too French_, remember? But a fucking off-the-boat-Frenchman's not _too French_ for you? You're unbelievable, you fucking hypocrite! Why didn't you tell me?!" he snapped.

"Because you left!" Arthur shouted. "By the time I returned to New York you were gone! How was I supposed to know that nine years later you'd be with Francis' son? How was I supposed to know anything, Alfred, when you never fucking talked to me?!"

"Oh, now you're interested in my life, _nine years later_? Well it's none of your fucking business!"

"I'm your father!"

"That's not _my_ fault!"

"Al—" Matt tried to intervene.

"Shut up, Matt!"

"Alfred!" Arthur said defensively. "Don't yell at Mathew, he's not to blame. He—" He stopped. Al had started laughing. It was a loud, cynical sound. "Alfred, stop it. You're being ridiculous."

Al clutched his stomach. "No, it's actually perfect," he said, smiling resentfully. "Because you've _finally_ found the son you've always wanted, haven't you? And Matt, you're already adept at being the perfect-fucking-son. I know!" he clapped his hands together. "Why don't you take Arthur back to Montréal with you? Then you'd have two Papas to spoil you, one big happy family. And you can smoke yourself sick while they fuck each other—"

Arthur's fist connected with Al's chin, sending him backwards. "You _brat_. You are _so _self-centered, and you have absolutely no regard for anyone else's feelings, do you? Nothing matters as long as Alfred Jones is happy, as long as Alfred Jones gets what he wants!"

"_What_? I'm not—"

"I was a bad father, I know that. But I've been trying to apologize to you for nine years and you won't listen. You _never_ listen. I bet you've never even asked Mathew _why_ he smokes opium. You're a self-obsessed _brat_!" he said. "The wannabe-hero: _I'll protect you_, _I'll save you_, when you don't even know why he's hurting in the first place!"

Al glared at his father. Matt intervened. He said: "Mr. Kirkland, could we please have a minute alone?"

_Mr. Kirkland_, Al mouthed in mockery. _Well_, _aren't we formal_? He watched his father hesitate, _just like Francis_,_ trying to protect Mattie from me. _Then Arthur nodded and left.

A tense silence stretched between Al and Matt, neither wanting to initiate an inevitable fight. Al rubbed his jaw where Arthur had decked him. He had never thought of Arthur as a fighter with a fierce right-hook, but his face throbbed. Matt sat on the bed, twisting a curl around his index finger. He looked delicate, like a prince in a tower. Half-dressed, his pale skin looked soft in the candles' glow, silky hair curtaining his violet eyes. If Al hadn't been so angry the sight would've been totally arousing.

"You know, everyone thinks you're so sweet and innocent, and you sure as fuck look the part, but I know the truth, Mattie. I'm the only person who knows how cold you really are."

In reply Matt pulled back the bed-sheets and stood, clenching the armchair's back for support. "I'm sorry—"

"Fuck, Matt. You're _always_ sorry. Is that a reflex, or what? Do the words even _mean_ anything to you?"

Matt shrugged. "What do you want me to say?"

"_Anything_!" Al burst. "Say whatever you want. Tell me how you feel, scream at me if you want! Just don't fucking stand there saying nothing. Don't give me an empty apology and expect to be forgiven, not this time. I've had enough of being lied to, being mollified with smiles and sex. You're fucking manipulative, you know that? I mean, do you even _like_ me? Or do you just need someone to take you West? Do you just want someone to fuck you at night?"

"Stop it." Matt's fists were clenched, shoulders arched defensively. He looked like a wildcat about to pounce. "I can't believe you just said that. I can't believe you actually think—"

"I don't know _what_ to think anymore. You won't talk to me, you won't let me help you. You didn't even have the courtesy to tell me the real reason you came to the city alone—"

"I didn't know this would happen—"

"—after I'm the perfect fucking gentleman. I gave you your space. I left you alone and look what fucking happened! Do you go looking for trouble? Because it's got an uncanny way of finding you. You're going to get yourself killed, Matt, and then Francis will fucking skin me."

"Stop it, Al. You've got to stop treating me like I'm breakable—"

"You _are_ breakable! You care about everyone except yourself—and me, apparently—because you're too afraid of hurting anyone. You won't even fucking defend yourself. Tell me I'm wrong," Al challenged. "Tell me you would've fought that rapist if Gil hadn't been there. Tell me you would've hurt him for touching you and I'll believe it."

Al waited. Matt said: "I took an oath to save people. It doesn't mean that I can't—"

"Oh yes it does!" said Al victoriously. "It means you can't fucking—"

"AL, STOP IT!" Matt yelled. Clutching the closest thing, which happened to be a pillow, he threw it at Al ineffectively. "Stop cutting me off! You want me to talk? Then let me finish a goddamned sentence!" He glared angrily at the American, eyes like violet spitfire. "Arthur was right. You _never_ listen."

"_What_? I ask you every fucking day to tell me what's wrong."

"Yes, but you always somehow manage to make everything about _you_, even if I'm the one hurting. Last night the first thing you said to me was: _I_ should have been with you, _I'll_ hunt down the people who hurt you. It's always the same, Al. You're passionate and impulsive, and I love that about you, I really do, but you can't always be the hero. You can't always save the day. Not everything can be fixed so easily. It's not always a force of strength or willpower that's needed. You really are _just_ like Papa," he said, not unkindly. "You think that you can kiss me, or buy me something, or tell me something sweet and it'll make everything all better. It's a quick fix to stop the tears, and that's really all that matters, right? Because it's the tears that make _you_ sad and uncomfortable.

"You think I can't protect myself?" Matt said quietly. "Well, you're _wrong_. When I was thirteen I killed a man for trying to fuck me. He was a priest. I stabbed a quill into his neck and he died. He choked to death on his own blood and I watched him. I did that. And I never want to do it again. I don't want anyone else to die because of me, not ever." There were tears in Matt's eyes, but they didn't fall. He stared straight at Al, and said: "I don't want you to protect me if it means killing. I've already done that myself."

Al stared. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He opened and closed his mouth in disbelief, searching for words of comfort. He had never seen Matt look so distressed. "But Mattie... something like that... you can't blame yourself. It wasn't your fault."

"That's what Papa said. He told me that I was a victim and he's treated me like one ever since. He said it was self-defense, but it doesn't matter what you call it. It doesn't change anything. Papa paid a lot of money to a lot of people to protect me, to make it all go away, and eventually it did. Everyone forgot about it, except me."

Al was speechless; he didn't know what to say. Matt had never spoken like this before. He had never shared his secrets or fears with Al. Not like this. Every time Al fought or dueled someone for Matt's sake, every time he threatened strangers for insulting him, Al hadn't understood why his lover felt so strongly against it. "Leave it alone. Just ignore it," Matt always said, and Al felt angry. _Why won't he fight back_? he wondered. _Does he _like _the attention_? Now he knew the truth. If one person—someone that Matt had trusted—had abused him, tried to hurt him, then how many more were there? How many more secrets was Matt keeping to himself?

Al looked into Matt's violet eyes and suddenly he felt _very_ insecure, a sick feeling he was unaccustomed to. He swallowed. "So what then?" he asked. "You don't trust me, is that it? Do you think I don't love you? Cause you're wrong!" he insisted. Determination moved him forward. "Mattie, I can't change the past. I wish I fucking could, cause I'd take you, and kiss you, and stop you from ever taking that first shot of laudanum, but I can't. What I _can_ do is tell you that I'm a loud, impulsive idiot, but I mean what I say. I'm _not_ like Francis. I know I can't fix everything by saying _there-there_, and I'm sorry if sometimes I say the wrong thing. I just... I don't always get it. You're such a closed-book, Matt, sometimes I don't know what I'm supposed to do. All I can do is tell you now, like I've told you a hundred times before, that I love you. And when I say _I love you_ I really fucking mean it, okay?"

Al was close enough now to take Matt's hand, which he did. Theatrically he knelt down and looked earnestly up into his lover's face. "Arthur doesn't know _us_. He's as stuck in the past as you are, but I'm not. I'm on my fucking knees for you," he smiled. "Asking you to trust me because, yeah, I make threats and say a lot of shit, but I _mean_ the important stuff. They're not empty words, Matt. They're straight from the fucking heart. You cause me _a lot _of grief, but I'm not following you because I want something to protect. It's not because I think you're weak. I'm following you because I want to be with you."

Pursing his lips, Matt nodded. He tugged Al's hand, helping him up, and then wrapped his arms around the American's neck. Al hugged him, pressing his forehead against Matt's shoulder. Matt said: "I'm sorry for all the grief I cause you, for lying to you, but it's never an empty apology, Al. I never _want _to hurt you, I just... I wish I was stronger, strong enough not to need..." He inhaled. Al felt Matt's breath on his neck. "I don't know what to do," he admitted. "I need your help, your strength."

Al smiled. He could've made a typical hero-reference, but he didn't. He got it now. It wasn't that Matt didn't need Al; it was that he needed Al to support him, not do it for him. He needed Al to be his safety net, ready to catch him if he fell. A role Al was more than willing to accept. "I love you," Al repeated, holding Matt. _You're the only person I want to be with. The only one I want to do ridiculously mushy things with_,_ like hold you just like this._ It wasn't befitting of his all-American, chain-smoking, gun-fighting bravado that he had earned, but it was the truth. "I'm going to wait for you to say it, Mattie. Even if it takes years, I'm going to follow you until you tell me that you love me too."

He heard a soft chuckle, and Matt said: "You're an idiot."

And Al thought: _Yes I am. An idiot completely and unequivocally_, _head-over-heels in love._

* * *

Al was kissing Matt when Arthur returned. He didn't mean to stare, but the sight took him off guard. He could see his son's slick tongue jammed into Matt's mouth. It reminded him of his youth and, quite unintentionally, of the suave Frenchman whose tongue he had tasted so often. Both boys looked _so_ much like he and Francis had then, if not just in appearance than in enthusiasm. Arthur faltered.

Al noticed him first. He stopped abruptly, and said: "Pa," somewhat sheepishly. Matt blushed, but neither of them moved to break physical contact. Al kept his arms looped possessively around Matt's waist.

"So sorry," Arthur hurried, feeling embarrassed. "I didn't mean to— I should've knocked."

Al was about to retort in agreement, but Matt said: "It's alright. It's _your_ room, Mr. Kirkland."

"Yes, it is," said Arthur, regaining composure. He cleared his throat and walked purposefully inside, ignoring Al's defensive glare. He lifted the lukewarm teapot, and said: "Would either of you like a cuppa?"

"No. Mattie and I are leaving," Al replied. Holding Matt's waist, he pulled him toward the door. "C'mon."

"Really, Alfred," Arthur stopped him, stirring sugar-cubes into his tea. "You're not going to drag Mathew out in the middle of the night in _this_," he indicated the storm. "Besides, you're both tired, and Alfred you're still soaked." His clothes clung to his body, blonde hair plastered to his head; Matt's shirt-front was wet from hugging him. Arthur tossed his son a towel. "I'll have the hotel wire wherever it is you're staying to tell them that you're both safe. Allistor can entertain the rest of your mates. Just sit," Arthur insisted.

Hesitantly Alfred pulled off his wet shirt, dropped it on the floor, wrapped the towel around his neck, and sat down on the settee. Matt sat down beside him and accepted a teacup from Arthur, who sat across the coffee-table from them. Al dropped his arm over Matt's shoulders and stared at his father.

_Oh good_, Arthur thought sarcastically, _I was hoping he'd be tense_. _You'd think sucking Mathew's tongue would've relaxed him a little_,_ but apparently not_. "Alfred," he said, and then hesitated. He wanted to reconcile with his son, as he had advised Matt to do, but he didn't know what he wanted to say. _I'm sorry I was a bad father_;_ I'm sorry you ran away_; _I'm sorry you hate me_.

In the end his courage deserted him and all he said was: "I'm sorry."

* * *

It was half-past three in the morning and Arthur was wide awake. He was holding a cold teacup, absently staring at Al and Matt, who were asleep on the settee. Matt was lying against Al, his head on the American's shoulder, and Al was lying on his back, one leg resting on the table with his right arm hanging down. Arthur listened to the soft sound of Al's breathing. The storm had finally abated, leaving the world cold and quiet, and Al's steady breaths sounded loud in the silence, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. He looked peaceful in sleep, with Matt's body curled against him. But, unlike Al, the young Canadian's eyelids fluttered restlessly.

Arthur felt something touch his heart then. It was tender, but it hurt. And he didn't know why.

Suddenly the door flew open and Allistor stormed in, half-drunk but sobered in panic, green eyes alive with fight. "Ay, Alfred!" he yelled, then stopped. "What the hell are you doing? What's _this_?!" he gestured to Al and Matt. Matt awoke, flinching in surprise; Al groaned loudly and blinked.

Arthur stood. "Allistor, what are you doing? Are you _drunk_?"

"Aye," Allistor snapped, "but that's not the point! Those three cocksuckers you brought with you went wild and ran off after some bastard downstairs, screaming 'bout how he was a fucking would-be murder—? I don't know, but they're making a fuss outside. Bastard's got a whole gang with him and your mates either need backup quick, or something to cool them down before they get _shot down_."

Al leapt into action. He left his wet shirt balled on the floor, but grabbed his belt and gun holsters. "Fucking idiots," he growled. "Stay here," he said, but Matt followed him out, saying: "Like hell I will, they're _my_ friends too!"

Arthur tried to intervene, but both boys were gone before he could speak. He looked at Allistor, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He felt anxious, but he didn't know why. _Alfred has been in dozens of gun-fights_, he reasoned. He grabbed his overcoat and raced out after them, leaping down the stairs like a circus-act, Allistor in close pursuit. The pistol's weight in his coat-pocket gave him some degree of comfort, but Arthur ran faster when he reached the lobby. _Alfred. Mathew. _His heart was pounding. The rain had stopped, but a cold wind blew fiercely; the lampposts were dark. Arthur didn't see them at first, cloud-cover shadowed the street, but he could hear them shouting. Eight people were yelling and pointing guns: four strangers, a German, a Spaniard, an Italian, and one fired-up American.

"You think I don't fucking remember you?!"—"You _shot_ him! I'll fucking kill you, you bastardo!"—"C'mon, you cocksuckers! An eye for a fucking eye!"

"Hey, wait!" Al shouted. He was standing between the opposing groups, facing the strangers. His hand was on his gun's grip, ready for the worst. "Just calm down, alright? You're the bastards who shot Lovino, aren't you? Listen, you're going to—"

"_What_?" interrupted a blonde stranger. "You'll fucking _what_? If you move a fucking inch—" A sly grin curled his lips, and that's when Arthur realized: _Where's Mathew_?!

"—I'll put a bullet in his head," said his partner, a brown-haired man. He was holding Matt against his chest, head pulled sharply back by his hair and a gun barrel pressed to his temple. "One move," he growled threateningly, jostling Matt, "and that'll be the end of this very pretty boy, wouldn't that be a shame?"

"No, don't!" Al moved in reflex.

He stopped when the blonde snarled: "Not another goddamned step!"

The brunette holding Matt eyed Al curiously, and then smirked: "Ah, it's like _that_, is it? Can't say I blame you. He's a fucking pretty little slut." Then he leaned down and dragged his tongue across Matt's jaw, tasting him. The Canadian squeezed his eyes shut in revulsion. "Like that darling?" the brunette snickered. "Maybe I won't kill you. Maybe I'll fuck you instead."

"Stop it! Let him go!" Al shouted angrily. He took another step forward, provoking the brunette into retreat. The stranger didn't seem to know that Arthur was standing beneath the saloon's overhang, behind him. "Please," Al said, surrendering his empty hands. "Just let him go."

"Don't touch him, you dirty fucker!" snapped the German, overriding Al's plan. "I'll blow your fucking brains out if you— Stop it!" he yelled forcefully. The brunette was sucking hungrily on Matt's neck, faking erotic noises; the gun barrel was still pressed to his temple. "You sick bastard, I'll—"

"Gil, shut up!" Al snapped. The brunette was playing with them, egged on by Gil's temper. "I'm going to say this one more time: Let. Matt. Go."

"Or _what_?" repeated the blonde, the man who had shot Lovino. "Maybe we take _Matt_ with us, huh? Maybe I take a _stab_ at him when Black's done? Or hey, trade you my pistol for the fiery little Italian?" he nodded.

Lovino let loose a slew of the vilest-sounding Italian Arthur had ever heard. He would have charged at the offending man, but the Spaniard clenched his shoulder, aware of the two strangers beside him. Both the Spaniard and the Italian had guns aimed at the blonde and his partners, who had two guns pointed back; the red-eyed German aimed at Black, the brunette; Black held his gun to Matt's head; and, unarmed, Al said: "Matt!"

"Al..." Matt risked. His voice sounded strangled. Timidly he pushed against Black's chest. "Let go," he said quietly. Arthur heard because of proximity: Matt's voice was shaking. "I don't want anyone to get hurt."

Subtly Arthur drew his pistol and levelled it at Black's leg. The man's attention was on the crowd and Matt's slender neck; his finger on the gun's trigger was loose. If Arthur shot his leg and scared him, he might release Matt. It was a gamble, and he would never forgive himself if he was wrong and Matt got hurt, but—

"Ah! _What the fuck_—?!"

Arthur was too slow. Impulsively, Allistor tackled Black to the ground. Black dragged Matt down with him, but his hand flung out in reflex and he shot the wall. The surprise-attack jolted everyone else into action: Gil shot Black; the blonde shot at Lovino, but the Spaniard pulled him down; then the blonde whipped around and aimed at Al, who was still unarmed. As if time had slowed, Arthur saw his son in danger, standing directly in the gun's path. He saw the blonde squeeze the trigger, and his heart skipped. He held his breath. He raised his pistol, but too late—

Matt jumped in front of Al—BANG!—and fell against the American's broad chest.

Arthur shot the blonde in the head. The other assailants ran. Allistor swore. And Al screamed: "MATTIE!"

* * *

Mattie?! Mattie, babe, look at me." Al could feel himself shaking. He fell onto his knees in the mud, holding Matt, one hand pressed futilely to the Canadian's back to stop the flowering blood. It was crimson-red and hot. A tear fell onto Matt's cheek, and only then did Al realize he was crying. "Matt, look at me— please open your eyes."

Matt's eyelids flickered. He gasped: "Al—"

Al nodded. "Yeah, I'm here. I'm right here." He kissed Matt's forehead. "You're okay, Mattie. I'm here."

Overhead he could hear people shouting and milling about, asking questions. The hotel's patrons had been drawn by the gunshots. Allistor was shouting loudly for a doctor. Gil was swearing in German; Antonio in Spanish; Lovino in Italian. It was pandemonium. Al felt Arthur's hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard, and his voice: "Alfred."

But Al wasn't listening. He was panicking. He was hurting. _Mattie_,_ don't go. Don't leave me_.

Matt's breath was short, gasping. His skin was paler and colder than usual, parched of colour. Desperately he opened his eyes, violet staring fearfully up into cornflower-blue, and he grasped Al's arm weakly. He trembled, trying to speak; blood coloured his lips. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he said: "S-sorry—"

"No," Al shook his head. "No. No. No, Mattie, you're not. I love you, okay? You can't die. I love you, Matt," he cried, kissing Matt once, then twice.

"Al, you're right," Matt whispered, so softly that Al could barely hear. He leant down, touching Matt's cheek with his bloody fingers. "I don't care about protecting myself... but I _can_ protect _you_."

"Matt? Matt?!"

Matt's eyes closed. His hand went slack. Al screamed.


	6. Chapter Six

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BOOMTOWN**

* * *

**SIX**

**DETROIT**

**OCTOBER 1880**

Where is he?!" demanded Francis Bonnefoi. He slammed his fist on the reception counter. "_Où est mon fils_?!" The Frenchman looked hollow-eyed, exhausted, like anyone who had spent five days travelling, worrying over the health of his most beloved. He clenched a suitcase in a white-knuckled hand as he expelled five days of pent-up anger on the frightened receptionist: a tiny blonde girl from Liechtenstein.

Arthur sighed. "Francis," he said, standing in the middle of The Royal Hotel's lobby. The Frenchman spun around, surprised to hear his name; more surprised that it had come from an Englishman he had once known. He gaped at Arthur in shock, as if seeing a ghost. His lips formed words that his tongue seemed incapable of speaking. He clenched the suitcase's handle. "Francis, I'm—"

"_Mon Dieu_. What the hell are _you_ doing here?" he said, fearing the worst. "Arthur Kirkland," he whispered in disbelief, remembering the taste of the name. "I don't understand..." He shook his head. "What's going on? Where is Mathieu?" Arthur hesitated. Francis' face was so expressive: anger, worry, sadness, and—most notably—fear. His blue eyes were desperate, panicked. Arthur swallowed, his throat felt dry. "Were you the one who telegraphed me, telling me that my son was..."

Silently, Arthur nodded.

Francis pursed his lips, producing a whine. Then, bravely, he inhaled and said: "Arthur... where is my son?"

* * *

Mathieu! Oh, mon chéri. Mon petit bébé! Oh non!" Francis rushed to Matt's bedside and grasped his hand. He leant down and gently pressed a kiss to his son's snow-white forehead, but Matt didn't move. Nothing about his prone, comatose state suggested that he knew Francis was there at all. Arthur felt his heart constrict in sympathy. The young Canadian looked like death, cold and colourless; his breathing was extremely shallow. Then, suddenly, the Frenchman exhaled in anguish and turned livid eyes on Alfred. Heatedly, he spat: "This is all _your_ fault! My son is dying because of _you_!"

Tears sprang to Al's blue eyes. He choked weakly: "I—"

Defensively Arthur placed his hand on Al's shoulder. "No," he said to Francis. "It's not Alfred's fault. He'd never endanger Mathew, he—"

"Just stop," said Francis, glaring at them sadly. He looked weak. The fight had left him just as fast as it had come. Clutching Matt's hand, he looked at Arthur and Al, and said: "You've done enough, just leave us alone."

Arthur wasn't sure which one of them he was talking to, the glare suggested it was both and the Englishman felt it. He wanted to speak, to defend himself and Al, but words failed him. Again, he didn't know what to say. _What _can_ I say_? Nothing. Wordlessly he nodded, and was about to leave when Al refused:

"No." Stubbornly he walked to the bedside and took Matt's other hand, sitting himself down. "I'm not going anywhere until Matt wakes up."

"Al—" Arthur started. There was a good chance that Matt _wouldn't_ wake up, but Al ignored him.

"I'm _not_ leaving him. It should be me lying on this bed, but it's not." Teary-eyed, he looked right at Francis, and shamelessly said: "I love Matt. I can't begin to tell you how much I _wish_ I had been shot instead. And if he dies because of me... I'll never forgive myself. I couldn't fucking stand it!" He sucked back a sob. "You can hate me all you want, Francis, but I'm not going anywhere without him."

Arthur held his breath. He could feel the tension, electricity like lightning between Al and Francis as they glared at each other in challenge. He remembered the intensity of Francis' fierce blue eyes, and what it felt like when he pierced you with that passionate gaze. It was overwhelming. So Arthur was shocked when Francis lowered his gaze first, surrendering to Al. Quietly, he said: "Fine."

* * *

Francis stood staring down at Matt, anxiously chewing on his thumbnail. He had been there for hours. People, all of them strangers, had been in and out talking to him, asking about he and Matt, but Francis barely heard. He let Arthur do the explaining and snapped at the Englishman when told to eat and sleep. Francis wasn't the least bit hungry and he _really_ didn't want to sleep. His son might never wake up: Matt could die and if Francis was asleep he wouldn't know until it was too late. He clenched his fists, terrified by the possibility. He had been in love before, but never like this. Never had he loved anyone as much as his son. Standing on his doorstep twenty-two years ago, holding the baby for the first time, he had felt a fierce desire to love and protect Matt from _anything_ that might hurt him; from the cruel world outside. A world that Alfred F. Jones had introduced him to. _Just look what you've done_! Francis thought, but he didn't have the energy to rage. The fight had left him. Deep down he knew that it wasn't Al's fault, but he was scared. He just wanted his son to wake up. He would do anything, give anything, to see his son wake. He couldn't lose Matt, the only one who truly, unconditionally loved him. _I can't lose my baby._

The hotel room door opened and closed. It was dark. Night had fallen and nobody had lit the lamps. Francis didn't move. He continued to stare at Matt and Al, who was lying close beside him and clutching Matt's lifeless hand. He was snoring. _How can you sleep_? Francis wondered, somewhat resentfully.

"Francis," said Arthur's voice. "You've been awake for forty-eight hours, you should try to sleep. I can get you a sedative if you want."

"I'm not tired," he lied.

Arthur sighed. "There's nothing you can do right now. You can't—"

"Don't tell me what to do. Just leave me alone, Arthur."

The Englishman didn't leave, but neither did he speak. He remained silent, standing beside his ex-lover in the darkness. Francis could feel him, even though they weren't touching. It had been years, but he still remembered Arthur's scent, like pine-needles and expensive cigars. He remembered the feel of Arthur's hands, his body, and felt himself leaning toward him—quite unintentionally. Their shoulders brushed and instantly Francis felt weaker. Softly he whispered: "I'm scared."

"I know."

"No, you don't. Your son is alive—"

"—because of Mathew," Arthur finished. He turned to face Francis. The Frenchman could see those intense forest-green eyes in his peripheral vision. "Francis, I've honestly never been so scared in my entire life. When I heard that gunshot and saw Mathew fall... I never thought I'd... I can't tell you how much it..." He paused. Arthur had never been good at expressing himself; Francis knew that better than anyone. After a long silence, he said: "I owe him Al's life. My son is alive thanks to yours, but I'm just as scared as you are. I _am_!" he insisted when Francis turned away. In his voice Francis heard the same definitive tone as in Alfred's: _Like father like son_. "You _know_ how much I loved that child," said Arthur honestly.

Francis nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. He couldn't do it, couldn't hold back the tears anymore. Hot, salty tears rolled down his cheeks, and, before he knew what had happened, he felt himself grasping Arthur's shirt, drawn into a familiar embrace. It was warm and comforting. Arthur looped his arms around Francis' back and held him close in comfort. Francis wrapped his arms around the Englishman for support, crying quietly onto his shoulder, and he whispered: "If you loved him... why did you leave us?"

The year Arthur had spent in Montréal with them felt like a distant memory, just a dull, throbbing ache that was neither painful nor pleasant. They had both been young and passionate in love _and_ anger. It had ended badly, but Francis couldn't deny that, for those twelve months, he had had everything he had ever wanted: Matt and Arthur, the loves of his life. He could still vividly recall the sight of Arthur standing in the nursery, holding Matt, comforting him in the face of a storm, and how his baby had fallen asleep in the Englishman's arms.

_Yes_, Francis knew, _I have no doubt that you loved him_, _but—_

He lifted his head, staring at Arthur, almost eye-to-eye; the Englishman was only an inch or so shorter. And unabashedly he said: "I loved you, you know. I know I say a lot of things that don't matter, empty words, and I know we didn't always get along. But that time in the nursery, I meant what I said. I really loved you then."

Arthur said: "I know."

* * *

It was early-morning. The sun was still asleep but Arthur and Francis sat across from each other in the dark hotel room, both too tired to sleep. Arthur handed Francis a wineglass. "I thought you were making tea?" Francis asked.

"I think you need something stronger."

Francis took a generous gulp and then paused. He licked his lips, recognizing the bitter-sweet taste. He said: "This is my wine. This is from my vineyard, isn't it?" Incredulously he leaned forward and read the bottle's pale label. It was a rich grape-wine from one of his Niagara vineyards, his favourite one. He had brought Arthur there once when they were together. He took another, slower sip.

"It's still my favourite," Arthur admitted, staring at the tabletop. He shifted and took a drink.

Francis frowned. "But I don't have any buyers in Detroit."

Arthur swallowed, emptying the glass. "I know," he said, pouring more to avoid Francis' gaze. "I brought it from New York. I like to have wine when I travel and that stuff they sell on the train is absolute piss."

Francis was about to reply, but Al interrupted. He was sleep-talking: "_Mattie_." The Frenchman sighed and sat back, absently swishing red wine in his glass. "I still can't believe _you_ have a son."

"Yeah," Arthur mimicked his posture, "me neither."

"_You _have a son. And he's _Alfred_."

"Yeah."

"Alfred F. Jones."

"Yeah."

"Alfred Jones is _your_ son, and Mathieu is _my_ son, and they're—"

"Yeah."

Francis sighed. "It's just... so strange," he said, eyeing the bed and its young occupants. "Do they remind you at all of..." He paused. Arthur raised a blonde eyebrow incredulously, and Francis shook his head: "Never-mind."


	7. Chapter Seven

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BOOMTOWN**

* * *

**SEVEN**

**MONTRÉAL **

**APRIL 1879**

Alfred F. Jones was unstoppable. His blood was hot, fired with adrenaline. He could feel the sweat on his skin, his heart pounding in anticipation. He flipped his gun from its holster, swung it around his hand and clenched the grip, finger poised on the trigger—BANG! It was a perfect, clean shot. The bullet ripped through his opponent's stomach, tearing flesh and splattering blood, and the man fell backwards with an audible _thud_. The twenty-two-year-old American gun-fighter hollered in triumph, drunk on whiskey and victory.

He flipped his gun, returned it to its holster, and was about to saunter off when—

"ARRÊTEZ! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

He was a well-dressed Québécois, younger than Al and as pale as winter. He was kneeling by the bleeding man, pressing his hands to his stomach, and glaring angrily at Al with the most beautiful violet eyes Al had ever seen. He yelled loudly enough to startle the crowded street: "You Yankee bastard, what the fuck do you think you're doing?! Shooting up the place like it's a goddamned saloon! This isn't the wild fucking west, you jackass! Don't you have any sense? Don't you care at all about human life?! You selfish, uncivilized _criminal_!" He continued yelling in French after that, which Al couldn't understand, but, judging by the crowd's reaction, the young man used some choice language. His cheeks were flushed and he shook his head, silky curls bouncing against his slender neck. Angrily he pulled off his waistcoat and used it to slow the flow of blood. His shoulders were slight beneath his shirtsleeves, and his chest rose and fell rapidly in panic.

Al stared in shock as the man marched toward him, bloody hands clenched; the American almost retreated. Fearlessly he stopped in front of Al and continued to berate him in French. It was a nice-sounding language, elegant, even if his words were not. Al noticed that his breath smelled like sweet winter-wine, but his eyes were like shards of ice. Al held up his hands in surrender, inches from the stranger's chest, but he couldn't get a word in edgewise. He could feel the crowd staring at him, laughing at him as the young Canadian ripped him to shreds.

Finally a Frenchman intervened and took his son's arm (so alike in looks, they couldn't have been anything but father and son). The Canadian pierced Al with an over-the-shoulder glare as he was led away.

Al watched them leave, dumbfounded. He was no stranger to foul language. He had been yelled at hundreds, probably thousands, of times in different languages, but it didn't usually faze him. He had spent the first seven years of his life in a brothel, and the next seven with a clan of drunken Brits. He wasn't someone who backed-down from a challenge; he wasn't someone who stood there defenselessly, feeling foolish when being berated. But the Canadian's tone—those ice-cold eyes—had completely frozen him. And he didn't know why.

"Hey," he said to a passerby, who was chuckling. "Who _was_ that?"

The man smiled. "That was the son of Monsieur Francis Bonnefoi, Mathieu."

* * *

Al stared open-mouthed at the beautiful country château. It was huge, surrounded by sprawling green pastures and forest-land, just three miles outside the city-proper. It was _very_ different from his father's townhouse in New York, which was no less lavish, but much less grand. The Bonnefoi estate was clearly meant to impress, and it did.

Al inhaled and knocked on the door. A footman answered. "Hello," said Al pleasantly. "Is this the home of Mathew Bonnefoi?"

"Oui," said the footman.

Al paused: "_We_ what?" he asked, puzzled.

The footman sighed, visibly annoyed. "Yes, it is," he said in clipped English.

"Can I see him... please?" he added, smiling.

"Is Monsieur Bonnefoi expecting you?"

"Err... no. Not exactly." He hesitated. "But there's, uh... something I need to tell him. So—?"

The footman eyed Al from head to foot, from his bedraggled blonde hair down to his weathered brown boots, dusted with mud. He lifted an unimpressed eyebrow, and said: "Very well. Whom may I say is calling?"

* * *

Alfred Jones? I don't know anyone by that name," said Matt, frowning.

He glanced at Francis, who shrugged. He started to stand: "Do you want me to accompany you, cher?"

"Non, Papa," Matt said, closing his book. He nodded to the footman—"merci beaucoup, Jean"—and left the library. His guest was waiting in the parlour: a tall, tanned, broad-shouldered blonde man, who was experimentally poking a piano key. Matt stopped short. "You're the man from last night, the gun-fighter," he blurted in surprise. Folding his arms, he eyed the stranger and said: "What do you want?"

The American turned. He said: "Yeah, I'm Alfred Jones. We, uh... met yesterday?" Sheepishly he massaged the back of his neck. "I, err... just wanted to..."

"What?" Matt asked, feeling suddenly self-conscious. The American was staring at him, looking less certain than he had last night. He was a handsome young man, a year or so older than Matt. He looked strong, the picture of American pride, and he had lovely cornflower-blue eyes. Last night they had been full of fire, but now they were soft.

Al shifted. "I don't know. I'm sorry, I guess. I just wanted to..." He paused, blatantly staring at Matt. "Can I take you for a drink?"

"_Excusez-moi_?" said Matt, taken aback.

Al shrugged, trying—and failing—to appear cavalier. "I bet you know the best joints around here, right? I'm really not that bad a guy. Let me buy you a drink to apologise for... you know, last night and stuff. Please?"

_Apologize for what_, _shooting a man_? _How'd he even get my address_? Matt sized-up the American: thumbs hanging from his belt-loops, hip cocked, an inviting grin on his honest face. Matt hesitated. _Papa wouldn't like it_, he knew. But rather than discourage him, the thought excited him. Francis thought that cowboys were rather uncouth, wild, and Alfred Jones certainly looked the part. Matt was intrigued.

He pursed his lips, and, before he could stop himself, he said: "Okay."

* * *

Matt took Al to a small, homey place outside of the city-proper. "Is it because you're embarrassed to be seen with me?" Al had joked, half-serious. "No," Matt denied. "I like this place, they serve my Papa's wine. You'll like it."

Al wasn't much of a wine-drinker. He preferred golden-grain beer and smooth Irish whiskey, but he had to admit that the Frenchman's wine was _damn good._

"Yes, and I think you're _damn_ drunk," Matt smiled. He was sitting at a corner-table by the window, across from Al as the American snapped his fingers, calling for another bottle. Matt rolled his eyes and emptied his glass.

Al heaved a deep sigh and cocked his head, looking like a playful golden-retriever. He wagged his finger at Matt, and said: "How're you doing, huh? You know, you don't _look_ like you could drink as much as you do. You're smaller than me, you know. And this is a lot." He waved his hand in indication. "How 'bout I order us a shot, yeah? There's no way your pretty little ass could out-drink me then, babe."

Matt straightened. "I think you're forgetting, _Mr._ Jones, that I was raised by a Frenchman. Bring it on," he challenged, grinning confidently. "Order whatever you want."

* * *

Matt burst out laughing, a high-pitched hiccupping sound (because nobody sounds attractive when they're laughing hard). He stumbled and fell against Al's side, grabbing his arm for support. Unbalanced, Al teetered sideways and tripped over a barstool, provoking a yelp of good-humour from Matt. Al looped his arm around the Canadian's waist and pulled himself up. "What're you laughing at?" he slurred.

"Your accent!" Matt snorted. "You sound so... _American_."

"Fuck yeah, I do!" Al said proudly. "I'm _all_-American, babe."

It was sundown, the sun was a fiery orange ball hanging above the horizon, the sky streaked in bright pastel-colours. It lit Matt's face, showering him in gold. Al watched him throw his head back drunkenly, laughing at nothing; his eyelashes glistened with pearly tears. _Wow_, Al thought, squeezing Matt's waist, _he's really fucking gorgeous_. It might have been the liquor—in fact, he was sure it was—but Al could feel himself responding to the Canadian's touch. His skin was soft and cold; it felt good against Al's hot skin. _Bet I could warm him up_, _bet I could make him sweat_. Al blinked. His mind felt fuzzy, drugged, as if he was living a daydream. His body felt electrified, and yet he was numb to the cool breeze; numb to everything except for Matt's touch, his soft voice, and his scent, like maple-leaves in autumn. Instinctively Al leaned down and buried his nose in the scent of Matt's silky hair. He inhaled, feeling something carnal stir within him. He sighed in contentment and stopped outside of the Bonnefoi château. Matt looked at him curiously, cheeks flushed, eyes alight with giddiness. And Al said: "Can I kiss you?"

Matt cocked his head, smiling. "Non."

He pulled away from the stunned American, and, laughing in drunken delight, ran to the house. He paused when he reached the door and waved. "Don't shoot anyone else, okay?" Then he disappeared inside.

* * *

**THE NEXT DAY**

Mathieu, you have a visitor," said Francis softly. "Mathieu?" Matt groaned when Francis' hand touched his forehead, brushing back his curls. Head pounding, he muttered incoherently and buried his face in a pillow. Francis chuckled. "Have a good night, did you? Come on, chéri." Francis poked him gently, provoking his son. "It's almost noon and you have a visitor at the door. It's that American, Mr. Jones."

Matt dressed—shirttails hanging loose, sleeves unbuttoned, barefooted, and finger-combing his bedraggled blonde hair—and stumbled sleepily down the stairs, squinting in the sunlight. He wiped his face and eyed the shadow leaning in the doorframe, smoking a cigarette. It said: "How's your head?" with only the slightest hint of mockery.

Matt yawned. He should've been embarrassed by his state: he shouldn't be receiving a guest half-dressed and hung-over, but he was. He didn't feel any pressure to impress the self-assured American, which, after twelve years of forced etiquette, was _very _refreshing. "It's fine," he lied.

Al cocked an eyebrow in disbelief, but said: "Fine enough to have lunch? It's my treat."

"If you've got more than three dollars in your pocket, I'll jump off the roof," Matt said. He gave the American a half-smile and gestured for him to come inside. "I'll tell the chef to make— triple?" he teased, guessing Al's appetite. "And give you the chance to make a better impression."

Al grinned. "Third time's the charm, right?"

* * *

**SEPTEMBER 1879**

Al, you're back!" said Matt, welcoming him into the Bonnefoi château. "I wasn't expecting you back so soon."

"I just couldn't stay away from you, Mattie," Al joked, shrugging off his dusty jacket. He threw his arm over Matt's shoulders and squeezed him in a one-armed hug. "I missed you," he said, nuzzling Matt's neck.

Matt swatted at him. "Alright, that's enough," he said, ducking beneath Al's arm. "Pierre, bring us food and wine please," he told the butler, leading Al into the parlour. "I want to hear everything about your trip, Al."

"Yeah, it was pretty good. But hey, I brought you something," he said, digging in his pocket. He pulled out a turquoise pendent with an arrow carved into it. "It's a good-luck charm," Al smiled, pressing it into Matt's hand. "The arrow symbolizes protection. I got it from a Huron tradesman I met traveling with a group of fur-traders up North. It's fucking cold up there," he added, shivering.

Matt held the pendant, admiring it's rich colour. "Merci, Al. It's really beautiful."

"I thought you'd like it," he smiled, sitting down next to Matt on the settee. Casually he rested his arm over the back, inches away from Matt's neck. "I told them you were studying medicine, and this guy—he had a funny accent—tried to sell me, like, a liver or something? Fuck if I know. Someone else told me to bring you back an eagle's eyeball—? I decided to get the pendant instead. But they let me go with them up North and I learned to shoot with a longbow, like fucking Robin Hood. Pretty awesome, right? I spent a week in the middle of fucking nowhere and it snowed— in _September_! It was fucking cold sleeping outside. Anyway—"

Al talked for hours; he never lacked for words. And Matt listened, laughing and gasping when appropriate. He loved Al's stories. The American had been _everywhere_. He had met so many people and done so many things. Matt couldn't help feeling envious, even when Al shared an anecdote about fighting a polecat for a fishbone.

Francis returned at sundown. "Oh, Alfred, you're back. Are you staying for supper?" he asked politely.

"Actually, I've invited Al to spend the night," said Matt.

"Yeah. I wish I could stay longer, but I've got a train to catch tomorrow morning. I'm going East."

"Oh, shoot. That would've been fun," said Francis sarcastically. "It's such a shame you can't stay. Mathieu, cher, would you please inform the chef? Merci, chéri." When Matt was gone, Francis scrutinized Al. "Don't you have a home somewhere?" he asked unkindly. "I'll believe you if you say no," he added, eyeing Al's weathered attire. "But do you realize you've spent the better part of six months in my house? Can't you sponge off someone else for a while?"

"I'm not sponging, I'm visiting a friend," said Al defensively.

"Non, visiting a friend means spending an evening together at a local tavern getting drunk. It doesn't mean leading mon Mathieu on, telling him fairytales. Do you _like_ being the hero? Do you like the way he looks at you with those big, dreamy eyes? You've barely left his side for six months, except when you run off to fish, or trap, or hunt for gold. Mathieu is delicate, he has a bright future _here_ in Montréal. I don't want you putting wild ideas into his head. He's not a vagabond like you, he has a home. He belongs _here_. You, however, do not." Francis shook his head. "Yet you're always here. You're here when I wake up, you're here when I go to bed, and I'm starting to wonder _why_? What is it you want, Alfred?"

Al stood. "I don't _want_ anything," he said, feeling insulted. "Matt's my friend. The only thing I _want_ is to see him. I'll stay in a hotel next time, but I'm not going to stop coming to see him. I just—"

"Supper's ready," said Matt, bouncing into the room. "The chef made your favourite, Al. Vite, vite!"

* * *

**NOVEMBER 1879**

Al, this is really cool," said Matt, holding the present Al had brought him. It was a big monarch-butterfly perfectly preserved in a block of thick amber. "I have a surprise for you too," he smiled slyly. "Get your coat."

Dressed in thick winter coats, scarves, gloves, and waterproof boots, Matt led Al through the winding forest to the summit of Mount Royal. Al panted, sweating and shivering as he climbed the steep incline. He had scaled walls more easily than this. "Mattie!" he gasped, wiping his brow. "Are you trying to kill me, is that the surprise? Cause you could've just poisoned me, there's no need for this torture."

The wind tossed Matt's curls as he turned, cheeks rosy. "It's not much farther," he promised, breath frosty in the night. There were tiny ice crystals in his eyelashes. Al watched as a snowflake landed on Matt's nose and had the sudden urge to lick it off. Instead he wet his lips. "Here," Matt said, offering Al his gloved hand. Al grasped it and let Matt pull him up the final few feet. "Still alive?" he teased, dusting the snow off Al's head.

"'Course," Al breathed hard, clutching his knees. "Just give me a minute—" He stopped. They were standing at the summit of Mount Royal, from the top of which Al could see the entire sprawling city of picturesque Montréal. It was beautiful, blanketed in snow and ice-crystals. The bright setting sun reflected its yellow-orange rays off the pristine snow, sparkling like powdered gold. Al could see mountains in the distance, and the flowing St. Lawrence River. It was breathtaking. "Mattie," he said, awestruck. "This is amazing."

"It's my favourite place," Matt said. "I wanted to show you before you left again."

Al looked at Matt. _You're more beautiful than the view_, he thought. He said: "Come with me this time."

Matt glanced at him incredulously, and then rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay," he said sarcastically.

"No, really. It'd be fun." Brazenly Al took Matt's hand between both of his. "We could go away, just the two of us; take a freight-train West, or a fishing fleet East. Or we could get a couple of horses and just ride. We could sleep under the stars and live off the land, and cook whatever we caught." He laughed at the disbelieving smile on Matt's face. "You've always wanted to see the Northern Lights up-close, right? We could go North, take a canoe upriver and portage over the land, then build a big bonfire and keep each other warm at night," he teased, pressing his lips to the back of Matt's gloved hand. "What'd you say, Mattie? Come with me."

Matt gently pulled his hand away. "I'd love to, but I can't. Papa would die if I went North, Al. And I haven't finished my training at the University yet. I'm studying to be a doctor, remember? I can't just leave."

Al's shoulders slumped, deflated. "Yeah, I know. Next year then, after you've graduated—?" He didn't realize he was holding his breath, waiting for Matt's answer. He wanted the Canadian with him. He wanted to show Matt the world outside of Montréal, but he wanted Matt to _want_ to go with him. He wanted Matt to _want_ to be with him the way Al wanted to be with Matt. Nervously, he reached out and touched Matt's shoulder. "Mattie?"

"Okay," Matt agreed. "Next year I'll go. But only if _you_ promise me something."

"Sure, what is it?" he said, afraid of sounding too eager.

Matt licked his lips. "Promise you'll come back," he said. Al was leaving tomorrow to go West. A small town in South Dakota had struck gold. He would be gone for several months this time, exploring deep into the dangerous Sioux territory with only his wits and twin pistols for protection. Anything could happen to him out there, where the law didn't exist. "Promise me you'll be careful, Al," said Matt seriously, "and come back alive."

Al nodded and pulled Matt into a hug. "I'll come back," he said quietly. "I promise."

* * *

**MAY 1880**

AL!" Matt threw himself into Al's outstretched arms. The other people at the train station gave them a wide berth as Al lifted Matt off his feet and spun him around gleefully, laughing like two children. "I can't believe you're back so soon!" Matt said, not for the first time. "Did something happen? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just couldn't stay away from you. I missed you too much, Mattie," Al said, feeding him the usual line, which, after six months away from the Canadian—his best friend—had become completely and irrevocably true. Al squeezed Matt, wanting to hold him and touch him and kiss him, but he couldn't do it in public. He couldn't even do it in private without risking their friendship. He didn't want to scare Matt, or make him uncomfortable, but it was getting harder to keep his feelings a secret. It was _so hard_—no innuendo intended. "Mm, Matt I missed you," he repeated, burying his face in the maple-leaf scent of Matt's hair. "I'm not leaving again unless you come with me."

They went directly to the little restaurant they had become regulars at and ordered drinks in celebration of Al's return, Al toasting to himself. They talked and laughed and drank themselves into a pleasant stupor, and then wrapped an arm around each other and sauntered clumsily back to the Bonnefoi château, tripping and laughing. They were walking through the garden when suddenly Al stopped. Emboldened by the liquor, intoxicated by Matt's voice and scent and touch, he grabbed the back of Matt's neck and pulled him into a deep, long-awaited kiss. He seized Matt's soft lips, sucking on his bottom lip, and forced his tongue into the inviting heat of Matt's mouth. After so long, it was the best kiss he had ever had. It felt so right. Al couldn't help himself, he moaned in pleasure—

—and Matt decked him hard in the face.

"_Merde_, Al! What the hell was _that_?!" Matt gasped, eyes wide in disbelief. Suddenly he looked scared.

"Mattie!" Al grabbed his shoulders, holding him. He didn't want Matt to run. "Please don't be upset! I love you, okay? I've always loved you. Ever since we first met, I've wanted to—"

"Let go," Matt said, sobering in panic. "You're freaking me out, Al— please let go."

Matt's heart was beating fast; Al could feel it. His face was white. "Shit. Don't be mad, okay? Mattie, I just—"

"I have to go," he interrupted, struggling. He freed himself and stumbled back in retreat. "Goodnight, Al." And he ran into the house.

Left alone in the garden, Al kicked a tree and then yelped, his fists clenched in his hair. _Fuck_.

* * *

**JULY 1880**

Congratulations, Matt," said Al, smiling. He was standing at the back of the auditorium, crowded with old, bearded men in top-hats and monocles: professors and patrons of McGill University. It was hot and stuffy inside Convocation Hall. Al took Matt's hand and led him out into a crisp, floral-scented breeze, avoiding Francis' disapproving glare beyond a gaggle of gentlemen. He didn't want to listen to the proud Frenchman fawn over his newly-graduated son, whom he thought should stay in Montréal. Francis had spent weeks trying to convince Matt not to leave, dropping not-so-subtle hints about how dangerous and uninviting America was, and Al was afraid that Matt would change his mind. The last thing he wanted was for Matt to think that Francis was starting to make sense.

"Thanks, Al," he smiled, pulling at his shirt-collar. He hated constrictive clothes in summertime.

"I've got something for you. It's nothing special," Al said, feeling embarrassed. "I just thought... well, you know: Happy Graduation." And he presented Matt with a long-stemmed red rose. "The girl at the florist said it was an appropriate gift, better than liquor." It was obvious that Al disagreed. "I thought it was girly, but... whatever."

Matt took it. "Merci."

Al was glad that his drunken indiscretion two months ago hadn't inhibited their close friendship. Matt hadn't exactly forgiven Al. In fact, he hadn't mentioned the kiss at all. He had acted like it hadn't happened, for which Al was both grateful and disappointed. While he didn't want to relive the embarrassment of rejection, Matt's anticlimactic reaction surprised him. That Matt hadn't even _acknowledged_ what had happened was strangely hurtful. The next day Al had gone back to the restaurant, expecting to be stood-up for lunch, but Matt arrived right on time, looking like he always did. _C'mon_, _Mattie_, Al had thought, watching him._ You weren't drunk enough not to remember._

"I, err... got you something else too," he added. From under his overcoat he slung a canvas-satchel off his shoulder and held it out, presenting it to Matt. "You said that you'd come with me after you graduated, so I got this for you. It's to carry your medical stuff in, see? It's got a red cross stitched to the side. You're still coming with me, right?"

Matt took the satchel, fingering the thick, durable fabric and the blood-red cross. Slowly his lips curled into a beautiful smile that touched his violet eyes. "Merci, Al. I love it." He wrapped his arm around Al in a hug.

"And—?" Al prompted hopefully.

"And I can't wait to get out of here," Matt said in confidence. "Just as soon as I can get everything ordered with the University, and somehow escape Papa. How do you feel about climbing out a window?" he joked. "Can you wait a month?" he asked, somewhat nervously. Spontaneously he pecked Al's cheek, then blushed furiously.

Dumbstruck, Al nodded. "Yeah, 'course I can."

* * *

**AUGUST 1880**

Mathieu, mon chéri!" gushed Francis, hugging Matt. "It's not too late to change your mind. Alfred will understand if you want to stay here with Papa, bébé. Instead of trekking out into the middle of god-forsaken nowhere," he added under his breath. "It'll be dangerous, chéri. I'll worry about you."

"Papa, _please_ stop making a fuss," Matt sighed, patting Francis' back consolingly. "I didn't spend six years as an acolyte in a _freezing_ cold Cathedral, and then six years studying medicine so that I could sit here doing nothing." _I'm ready to leave_. _I _want_ to leave._ _I'm not afraid_. He had spent nearly two years listening to Al's stories, watching his face light up, eyes twinkling as he talked. Al was so passionate about life—about freedom. It was intoxicating and Matt couldn't wait to experience it with him.

Matt had spent his childhood cooped-up in Montréal. It had been a happy childhood, molestation aside, just he and Francis in the isolated countryside. He had been beloved and spoiled by Francis and his acquaintances, but he had never had any real friends of his own. Sometimes it had been lonely, not that he would _ever_ admit this to Francis, who tried so hard to make up for the fact that Matt didn't have a mother. Matt was a clever and independent child: he could keep himself busy, studied hard, and never complained. But when Francis was gone, sometimes for weeks at a time, the château felt cold and lonely. Matt would have done anything for a friend like Al, someone so big and loud and enthusiastic to entertain him, and take care of him, and love him. _I love you_,_ Mattie_.

Matt glanced at Al, twirling a ring of keys around his index finger casually, pretending to be interested in the clouds. He cocked his head, rich wheat-blonde hair blowing in the breeze. Al stretched his bare, sun-kissed arms and pushed out his chest, then relaxed with a deep sigh, blue eyes watching Matt in his peripheral vision. He wore twin pistols on his tapered hips, and had a hunting knife shoved into a weathered sheath on his belt, boots toeing the ground impatiently. A small wagon was waiting behind him, pulled by two handsome horses. They represented freedom, adventure. Matt's heart pounded in anticipation. He was anxious, but excited to experience the unknown.

"Al?" he said.

Al blinked. "Yeah. You ready to go? The wagon's waiting."

Matt nodded. He squeezed Francis one last time and then, before the Frenchman could protest, left the safety of his embrace in favour of Al. The American threw his arm companionably over Matt's shoulders, letting his weight rest comfortably, and suddenly Matt felt like a bride: leaving his Papa for his—_Al._ But Al's touch felt good, reassuring him that he wasn't making a mistake, promising that he wouldn't abandon Matt or let anything bad happen to him. It was unlike Francis' protective, somewhat possessive, demeanor. Francis, who had tried his hardest to defend Matt against the cruelty of the world for twenty-two years. But Al wasn't like the others who had tried to take advantage of him. _He'd never hurt me_, Matt told himself. _He really does love me._ Matt could see that Francis didn't trust Al's intentions. He was afraid for his son, leaving home, but Matt wasn't. He knew that he would be okay because he had his best friend with him. Because he trusted Al. Because Al was strong, and he made Matt feel safe.

* * *

**ONE WEEK LATER**

Alright, Mattie? You've been kind of quiet," said Al. He was leaning against the wagon's backrest, running an oilcloth lovingly over his knife's blade. He reigns were hooked over his knee, giving the horses the lead. The road was unpaved and dusty, and canopied overhead by reaching tree branches. It was high-noon and the sun's bright rays filtered down through the treetops, stenciling the ground in leafy shadows.

Matt sat quietly, feeling anxious, but he didn't know why. He was very aware of Al beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder, and offered the American a shy smile in reply. "Yes, I'm fine."

"Want something to eat?" Al asked, pulling on the reigns. They stopped beside an empty field, tethering the horses to a tree branch, and then stretched out in the long grass. Al grabbed an apple from a bag and bit into its crisp, bitter-sweet flesh. He held out another, but Matt shook his head. Al shrugged and continued to _crunch_. When he finished he flung the apple core over his shoulder, and said: "You sure you're alright? You're not second-guessing your decision to come, are you?"

"No, of course not. It's just..." Matt paused, twisting blades of grass. He could feel his heart beating.

"Mattie?" Al leaned toward him in concern. "Hey, don't worry okay? Cause I'm going to take care of you. I promised Francis I would." He grinned. "And I _always_ keep my promises. So don't be scared, okay?"

Matt frowned. "I'm _not_ scared."

"Oh?" In a surprise-attack Al tackled Matt and started tickling him like a child.

Matt gasped and hiccuped in laughter, shouting: "Stop it, Al! What are you,_ five_?!" But Al ignored him, grinning mischievously. He fought Matt's protests, whipping from side-to-side as he struggled for freedom, and climbed over him, straddling the gasping Canadian. He leaned down, his wheat-blonde hair framing his handsome face like a lion's mane, blue eyes twinkling in laughter. Matt's heart skipped a beat as Al drew closer, and, suddenly, he panicked. He couldn't breathe. "Al— seriously, get off!" he snapped, shoving him.

Al stopped and sat up. "What's wrong?"

Matt was flushed and gasping, chest rising and falling fast. He swallowed. He was acutely aware of Al's warm body, his thighs pressed to either side of Matt's waist, straddling him. His weight felt _arousing_.

"Mattie?" Al repeated. He reached down and touched Matt's cheek. "You feeling okay?"

Matt mumbled incoherently and turned his face away, shying from Al's touch. "Sorry, I just..."

Then suddenly Al was kissing him, pressing his hot lips against Matt's. "Matt," he whispered. He pushed his tongue against Matt's lips, forcing them open. Matt turned his head in escape, but Al followed him. He grabbed Matt's wrists and held them firmly on the grass. "Al—" he gasped, tears beaded in his eyes. "Stop... just don't... stop." _Don't stop_. And then he was desperately kissing Al back. He couldn't stop himself, it felt too good. Al released his arms and Matt wrapped them around the American's neck, pulling him closer. Al slipped his hands under Matt's shirt, caressing him, sending shivers across his skin. Involuntarily he moaned into Al's mouth and felt the American's body respond in kind. He could feel Al's cock against his thigh, growing hard.

Matt coiled his fingers in Al's hair and pulled, breaking contact. Breathing hard, he said: "Wait."

"Matt, I've waited _so_ long," said Al huskily.

He leaned back down, but Matt pressed his hand against Al's lips. "Just wait a little longer, okay?"

* * *

Al, stop," said Matt, holding either side of Al's face. Al pouted, faking agony.

"Matt-ie," he groaned, squeezing Matt's hips. He pulled the Canadian's body against his, unashamed of the erection straining against his trousers. "You're going to kill me."

Matt kissed Al lightly, then pulled back. It still made him nervous, knowing that he was doing something he shouldn't be. Al was ready. He _wanted_ to go further, but Matt was nervous. He felt _so_ good in Al's arms. He didn't want to stop, but if he didn't stop neither would Al, and then— The thought of Al fucking him excited Matt. It made his heart pound, but not always in a good way. _I'm scared_, he realized. But whether he was scared of the actual sex, or scared of what would happen to their friendship afterward, Matt didn't know. _I don't want anything to change_.

"Alright," Al sulked, oblivious to Matt's internal struggle. He started to rise when Matt stopped him with a hand on his chest, pushing him back down. Al cocked an eyebrow, curiosity becoming bewilderment as Matt leaned down and unbuttoned Al's trousers. "I-I thought you said you weren't ready?" he asked, already breathless.

Coyly, Matt grinned. He might not have been ready for sex, but there were other things he could do to relieve his friend's frustration, though he had never done it before. Instinctually, as if a puppeteer was controlling his body, he leant down and took Al's hard cock into his mouth. And sucked.

* * *

I love you, Matt. It's alright," Al whispered, brushing back Matt's hair.

Matt was lying on his back, writhing beneath Al's body as the American worked his cock. He pushed back his head, biting his lip, but it was useless: embarrassing sounds escaped him, egging Al on. He felt hot, skin slicked with sweat, and his body trembled. He cried out as his hips buckled in release, gasping: "_Al_!"

Al kissed Matt's lips. "It's alright," he repeated. Gently he lifted Matt's legs, pressing their bodies together, pressing his hard cock against Matt's naked skin. Matt flinched, grabbing Al's shoulders anxiously. Al ran his hands along Matt's thighs, from knees to hips, and then took hold of the Canadian's waist. He kissed him again, and then, without warning, Al forced himself into Matt like he would a woman.

Matt cried-out and clutched Al's shoulders. He gasped:"Ah! Ah-ha... nn... A-Al!" Tears fell from his eyes and his stomach clenched as Al's body rocked him, pounding forcefully: excitedly. It was painful and hard to breathe, but Al's head was thrown back in ecstasy, gasping as he pulled Matt closer. His hot, suntanned skin glistened with sweat, muscles flexing and pumping, trapping Matt beneath him. His hands squeezed Matt's hips, guiding his fast, pulsating rhythm: "Fuck," he cursed in pleasure. "Oh, fuck yeah— Matt." Shallow gasps escaped Matt and he cried-out with every thrust. He tried to speak but his throat was dry. He managed a strangled: "_Al_—" which turned into a pitiful whine. Al continued to pound into him: big, strong body moving roughly, cock swelling inside the Canadian. Matt could feel him getting close to the edge. _Not much longer_, he thought, gasping. "Unngh... Ah ha..." A spark of pleasure surged through his body, but Al's pace was too fast, too hard, and it faded almost instantly. "Haa... ahhh... nn—!" _I can't— I'm at my limit_, Matt realized, tears falling from his eyes. "A-Al—" He dug his fingers into Al's shoulders, panting heavily, feeling dizzy. Al was breathing hard, teeth clenched; Matt felt him shiver. Then, reaching climax, he bowed his head and grunted and his whole body jolted. Matt felt Al's cock release inside him, which sent an electric surge through his body. Weakly Matt moaned, and Al fell forward in satisfaction. He kissed Matt's lips and then rolled off the Canadian, panting. He said: "I really fucking love you, Matt."

Matt's body was shaking. He couldn't move, but he could feel the sticky blood-mixed-semen on his thighs. Slowly he reached down and touched his fingertips to it. Tearfully, throat dry, he managed a soft: "Uh huh."

* * *

**THE NEXT DAY**

Mattie? C'mon, Mattie, we've got to get going," said Al, placing his hand on Matt's blanketed shoulder. "C'mon, babe," he teased, nuzzling the back of Matt's neck, nipping the top of his ear. Matt shifted in reflex and pulled the blanket up over his head. Al frowned playfully. He was feeling _really_ good today, months of pent-up sexual frustration released in one passionate night. Fuck, it felt good! Rejuvenating. Even better than what his inventive imagination had conjured, because it had been real. Waking that morning, Al had pinched himself just to be sure he hadn't dreamt it. It wouldn't be the first time he had awoke feeling uncomfortably aroused. But this morning he had woken feeling refreshed and satisfied. Seeing Matt's figure curled up under the blanket beside him had stirred a number of competing emotions: love, pride, greed, desire. He wanted to keep Matt to himself. Now that he had finally tasted the Canadian he hoped that this road-trip would never end. "Mattie," he said, slipping his hand beneath the blanket, touching Matt's cool skin. "C'mon, get up. You've slept for long enough," he teased, poking him. "Matt-ie!"

"Al, stop it," Matt mumbled. "I'm not— _ouch_!"

Al flinched and removed his hand. "What's wrong?" he said, sobered by Matt's yelp. Inconsiderately he pulled the blanket off, revealing Matt, who was hugging Al's jacket as a pillow. He was gorgeous: skin flushed, hair tousled, lips swollen. Completely exhausted. And knowing that he was the reason made Al feel giddy with happiness. Smiling, he pressed his lips to the Canadian's cheek, then his jaw, then his lips—

"Al, I can't... not again," Matt said.

Al stopped. "Huh? Like... not right now, or not _ever_ again?" he asked. "Mattie, are you okay?"

"What do _you _think?" he retorted, glaring up at him. He pushed himself up, accepting Al's help, wincing as he moved. Then he shook off the American's touch and turned away.

Al paled. His heart beat faster as happiness became fear. "What's going on? Don't you... like me anymore?"

"Don't be stupid. Of course I like you," Matt said quietly. "It's just..." He shifted, fingering an errant curl self-consciously, and his cheeks reddened in embarrassment.

"Then what? You just... never want to have sex again? But Mattie—"

"It fucking hurt, Al," Matt snapped. "It hurt a lot. It wasn't... I'm sorry," he said, feeling guilty. "But you're really... aggressive, and it was a lot to take. It's not that I don't want to do it again, it's just... now I know how much it's going to hurt."

"Oh. I... I'm sorry, Mattie. I didn't think..." Al blushed shamefully. "Oh fuck. I'm so sorry, babe." He reached for Matt, wanting to comfort him, but stopped. He felt terrible, he hadn't meant to hurt Matt. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt him. Al had had sex with virgins before, but he had never been with a man. He had just done what he knew, which had always been popular in the past, _but it's not supposed to hurt that much_. _And that was Mattie's first time with anyone. _"Shit!" he cursed, fisting his hands in self-deprivation. "I'm an idiot, Matt. I didn't think—"

Matt silenced him with a kiss. "I'm not mad," he said. "It's just going to take some getting used to."

"So what you're saying is... we need practice?" Al's lips curled into a cautious grin. Gently he looped his arms around Matt, resting his hands on his lover's back.

"Maybe," Matt shrugged shyly. "But if you think we're going to start right now you're fucking crazy."

* * *

Just relax and trust me, okay?" said Al. "I'm not going to hurt you this time, I promise."

Matt clenched a fist-full of grass and squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation. He was on his knees this time—an easier position, Al figured—and Al's fingers were wet, lubricated with saliva and semen as he pushed two, then three slowly into Matt's body, stretching him gently. His other hand kept a firm grasp on Matt's cock, rubbing it and making it impossible to concentrate on anything else, including the faint pain. Matt shivered and gasped, weak with pleasure. He could feel his body responding to Al's erotic tough. It was dizzying in a _very _good way.

"You alright, Matt?" Al kissed his back. "Does it hurt?"

"N-no. _Ah ha_... _nn_... I'm okay— _Oh_! Keep g-going, Al... p-please."

* * *

Al sighed in satisfaction: _hah_ "Better?" _hah_

"Yes," Matt panted, lying on his stomach. "Much _hah_ better."

They wasted time lying together on a blanket in the grass, dozing peacefully until the wind blew colder and thunder rumbled overhead. The horses pawed the ground impatiently, as if urging them to move. They were already a week behind schedule, but the townspeople could wait longer. Together they got up and got dressed, packed up their humble campsite, and climbed onto the wagon. Matt leaned against Al, resting his head on the American's broad shoulder, and yawned. "I'm so tired." His body felt weak, but satisfied: completely spent.

Al smirked and wrapped his arm around Matt, holding his waist. "Go ahead and sleep, babe. I'll drive." He kissed Matt's temple, and added: "Love you, Mattie. I'm glad you're with me."

Matt smiled sleepily. "Mm hmm, me too."


	8. Chapter Eight

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**BOOMTOWN**

* * *

**EIGHT**

**DETROIT **

**OCTOBER 1880**

Mathew (Williams) Bonnefoi said "Al" before he awoke. His brain was foggy, half-conscious, and submerged in a reel of memories from not-so-long-ago that felt close. _Is this my life flashing before my eyes_? he thought. _Am I dying_?He could smell the scent of Al's skin, equal parts spruce-needles, cigarette smoke, and sweat, and the feel of his warm body: golden-brown skin stretched taut over shapely muscles. Matt knew the touch and taste of Al. He would recognize his voice, his soft snoring, anywhere—even inside a dream.

It was quiet in his head, the world was mute. Matt tried to move, but his body felt heavy and sluggish and did not respond at first. He stretched his fingers and a sharp pain shot up his arm, giving him goosebumps. He felt his whole body shiver involuntarily as he slowly, drowsily, gained consciousness. Reality struck him like an anvil. He was stiff and sore and it was difficult to breath. He sucked in air through his mouth, producing a soft gasp that nobody heard. Then, cautiously and painfully, he opened his violet eyes.

It was dark and it was cold. But Matt was lying against a familiar figure that generated heat: _Al_. The blonde American was stretched out beside him on the double-bed, his head sharing a corner of Matt's pillow. Matt's body ached with weakness, but he raised a hand and gently touched Al's sleeping face to prove he wasn't a dream. _I'm not dead_, he realized, touching his fingertips to Al's cheek. _And neither is Al_.

A troubled sigh alerted him to the man behind him, and Matt turned to find Francis sitting in a velvet chair. His arms were folded over the bed, head resting on his arms, fast asleep. _Papa_—? Matt hadn't expected to find Francis sitting beside him, looking exhausted. His long, ash-blonde hair tumbled loose over his shoulders, and his shirtsleeves were unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The sight of Francis brought forth an unexpected wave of emotion, and tears pricked Matt's eyes. Then he saw Al's father, Arthur Kirkland, slumped in a hard-backed chair, his legs crossed over the foot of the bed, arm dangling down and head tipped back. A tear fell from Matt's eye. _I'm surrounded_, he thought dizzily. Al, Francis, and Arthur—enemies of each other—were all here together for _him_.

"Mattie," Al murmured, drawing Matt's attention. Yawning, as if waking from a nap, Al blinked the sleep from his blue eyes and looked at Matt. Then his pupils shrank in realization. His mouth fell open and he leaned forward: "Mattie?! Oh God— _Matt_!" He wrapped both arms around Matt's shoulders, leaned his forehead against the Canadian's, and nervously laughed, overcome with relief. "Matt," he whispered, kissing him. "Thank God."

The disturbance woke Francis, who leapt up. "Mathieu! Oh, mon chéri, you're awake! Mon Dieu, you scared me." There were tears in his eyes as he reached out and wrapped his arms around Matt, engulfing his son, though Al didn't let go. Francis kissed Matt's temple, petting his head and rambling in French, which woke Arthur.

"Mathew!" he gasped in relief. He reached out in reflex, wanting to touch the boy, who was smothered by an American and a Frenchman. He settled for smiling instead, and whispered: "Thank God you're alright."

Matt felt tears on his cheeks, but he was smiling—laughing even. "I can't... breath," he said.

"Oh, sorry cher." Francis pushed Al: "Get off of him."

"How do you feel?" Arthur asked, trying and failing to hide his concern. "You're a bit flushed, Mathew. Are you feverish? Are you thirsty? Are you in any pain?"

Francis reached up and felt Matt's forehead. Al looked worried, big eyes staring like an expectant retriever.

"I'm okay. Just a little stiff, a little dizzy, and— _ouch_!" A stab of pain radiated from his back as he tried to sit up. Al braced his shoulders, helping him. Francis hovered nervously, brow creased. Matt offered a reassuring smile and changed the subject: "What happened exactly? I don't remember much. Papa, how did you know I was here?"

Francis and Arthur took turns explaining the situation, talking over each other and arguing about details. Al stayed uncharacteristically quiet. He kept his arm around Matt, refusing to break contact. When Francis and Arthur started fussing about Matt's needs—"He's got a fever, I'm calling the doctor"; "I'll get some water, he needs to rehydrate"; "Do you want something for the pain?"; "Ring for room-service, Mathieu should eat"; Jesus, he's shivering. I'll get another blanket"—Matt touched Al's hand, and quietly said: "I'm sorry," without making eye-contact, "for making you worry."

"If you're going to be _sorry_ about something, be sorry about taking a goddamned bullet," Al said. Gently he lifted Matt's chin. "You scared the fuck out of me. You almost got yourself killed, Matt. I thought you were—" He swallowed. "I thought you would die because of me, and I..." He shook his head. Overwhelmed, he leaned down and hugged Matt as tightly as he dared. "Don't _ever_ do that again."

* * *

Al and Matt were asleep in the comfortable double-bed. Arthur covered them with a blanket, as if they were children, which from his perspective they were. Matt hadn't lasted long. His body was weak and fatigued and he fell asleep shortly after waking. Francis panicked, but the doctor confirmed that Matt would definitely live. He was feverish and pained, but his life was no longer in danger. Al hadn't moved, not even for the doctor's examination. He stayed by Matt's side and eventually fell back to sleep. Gently Arthur touched his son's head, and something tender touched his heart. _I almost lost Mathew_, he thought, _I don't want to lose you again_, _Alfred. Please stop running from me._

He jumped in surprise when Francis' lips kissed his cheek. The cocky Frenchman grinned, enjoying the Englishman's embarrassment. "What the bloody-hell was _that_—?" Arthur snapped quietly, touching his cheek.

Francis' eyes drifted to the two boys, and back. "Thank-you for taking care of my son," he said.

Slowly, Arthur nodded. He kept his eyes on the boys, avoiding Francis' gaze. The Frenchman stood beside him silently, uncharacteristically patient. He fingered a cigarette, but didn't light it. It had been twenty years since he had left Montréal, but Arthur still recognized Francis' habits and mannerisms; he could still read the Frenchman's handsome face. Standing together, inches from touching, Francis felt familiar to him. And Arthur Kirkland was not a man who liked change—for better or worse. He was quiet for a long time, but finally he said:

"You know, I never stopped loving... that child." He nodded to Matt.

Francis' voice was like syrup, golden-smooth: "He never stopped loving you either."

"He doesn't remember me from then," Arthur countered, licking his lips. He felt hot, anxious even.

"Not your face. But he remembers your voice; your touch; the things you taught him. In the books he reads, and the songs he sings: always in English. Sometimes, even though it's been so long, he can't get you out of his head."

Arthur swallowed. He was dense, but he knew that Francis was no longer talking about Matt. He was looking at Arthur, unashamed. Arthur didn't answer, and Francis continued:

"You must admit, they look an awful lot like we used to," he indicated the boys. " They're not a bad couple," he admitted, somewhat resigned. "As much as I hate to say it, I think Alfred is what Mathieu needs. He's disagreeable, but he's strong."

Arthur nodded. "Yes, he is. They both are." He chanced a glance at Francis.

Francis smiled. "They look good together, don't they?" But he wasn't looking at the boys. "Maybe all of this happened for a reason. Maybe they need each other more than they think."

Arthur turned away from him. "Maybe," he allowed. "Give them a year together and we'll see."

* * *

**GRAND CENTRAL HOTEL**

**NOVEMBER 1880**

Great. I have a gunshot wound in my back." Matt sighed, examining his back in the standing-mirror. It was healing cleanly and quickly, but the pink wound would certainly leave a spider-webbed scar. "I look like a coward."

Al grinned and joined him in front of the mirror. He held Matt's hips and, leaning down, kissed his back. "No, babe, like a hero," he said, pushing his forehead against Matt's skin. He inhaled, breathing in Matt's maple-leaf scent and smiled. Then he stood up and rested his chin on Matt's shoulder, always cold to touch. "You saved my life, Mattie. It was so brave— and if you ever do it again I'll kick your fucking ass."

Al had warned Matt against any further life-threatening interventions he might try, as if Matt was going to make a habit of taking bullets. It took many kisses to convince Al otherwise, that he liked living too much to die, but Matt refused to make Al a promise. "It's my job to save lives," he had said, not untruthfully. Al hadn't been impressed by Matt's selflessness; rather, he had sulked stubbornly until Arthur told him to "let it go." It gave Al someone else to directed feigned anger at instead of Matt, which freed Matt for other purposes.

It was incredible how much near-death made you want to enjoy life. And Al and Matt took advantage of it.

Al leaned against him, just holding him, and Matt let himself relax. It felt good. It was just what he wanted—until he saw the seriousness in Al's eyes. He cocked his head, facing Al. "What's wrong?"

Al's blue eyes stared straight into Matt's, and he said: "Why'd you do it? Tell me it wasn't to prove yourself."

Matt shook his head. "_Why_? I'd think it was obvious," he said, mocking Al's attitude. The American frowned in misunderstanding, and Matt's face softened. "Alfred Jones," he said, giving him a feather-soft kiss, "I did it because I love you. And as much as you hate it, I'd do it again."

Wide-eyed, Al's lips curled into a giddy smile of disbelief. "You— love me? Did you really just admit that you love me?" he repeated, afraid that he had misheard.

Matt laughed, confirming it. "Yes. I should've told you sooner. I'm sorry, Al, but better late than never right?"

In reply Al kissed him. "You love me," he repeated happily, smiling against Matt's lips. "You're such an idiot."

"Maybe," Matt agreed. He held Al, his best-friend, knowing that he had finally found where he belonged. It was the best feeling in the world. "It doesn't matter though, because I really _fucking_ love you, Al. And I always will."

* * *

**FIN**

**THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thank-you to everyone who has supported _Boomtown _by reading and reviewing it. In addition, I have written a prequel: _Wine &amp; Cigarettes_, which tells the story of Arthur and Francis before the events of the original story. For those so inclined to read it, I appreciate your support and sincerely hope you enjoy :)

Cheers,

Shadowcatxx


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